


Continuing Heritage

by chappysmom



Series: Heritage [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, John's background still isn't what you think, John's been using his mother's name all these years for a reason, Unexpected family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock looked at his friend, noting the white at the lips, the lines of strain in the forehead, as his fingers curled around the boy’s shoulder. Then, before he could help himself, he asked, “He’s not your nephew, is he?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC’s, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss’s, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s. I just like to play here. Not beta’d or Brit-picked. 
> 
> This is the fourth story in the “Heritage” series—where I take one fact and change it, watching in wonder as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but the rest of the army-doctor thing and being invalided out to meet Sherlock Holmes all stays the same. In the first one (Heritage Trust), though, we found out that his father was abusive when he was a child, which is why he felt he had to leave home and keep his past a secret. The second story (Trust Heritage) was a mirror image and made his father a _good_ father, but John still had reasons for striking out on his own. The third made John’s father the earl’s eldest son rather than the younger—which made a dramatic impact on John’s inheritance. And now, well … you’ll see! Each story, though, covers more or less the same time period, and while it might help to read them in the sequence I wrote them if only to see what changes I’ve been making, it’s not at all necessary. Have fun! (I know I am.)

John was sitting staring at his laptop when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and groaned, leaving it untouched on the table.

“Problem?” Sherlock’s voice came from across the kitchen, where he was measuring something malodorous into a test tube.

“No, it’s just Harry,” said John. “Probably wanting to confirm Sunday.”

“That seems odd,” Sherlock said, voice somewhat absent as he concentrated. “You visit her every Sunday. Why would she need to confirm?”

John stared even harder at his computer screen. “Exactly. She probably just wants to gripe about Clara some more, and really, she’s going to see me in two days. Surely it can wait until then?”

“In my experience, women are notoriously needy when it comes to talking about their _feelings_ ,” said Sherlock. “I thought they had split up? You’re not going to need to get a new phone, are you?”

John blinked for a moment, confused, and then remembered the inscription. “No, that phone is mine now, but they’ve been trying to work things out. It just hasn’t been going so well.”

He saw Sherlock nod, eyes fixed now on his microscope as he said absently, “For the sake of the kids, no doubt.”

Really, John thought, as his phone began to ring again, he had no idea.

 

#

 

It was only an hour later when everything changed. He and Sherlock had been called to a crime scene and were in the middle of examining a 20-year old woman’s mutilated body when his phone rang again. Glancing at the ID, he answered it this time, “Clara?”

“ _John, I need to see you._ ”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“ _You have to … look, she’s drunk again, and I can’t … It’s not safe and … I just can’t deal with this right now._ ”

John had edged away from the body now, as if shielding the distraught woman on the phone from the gory scene. “I’m kind of … no, right. Of course. Where are you?”

“ _I’m right outside, John,_ ” she said, hanging on to her wits by the merest thread.

“Outside the flat? Okay,” he told her. “Look, go into Speedy’s and get some tea and a snack. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes---half an hour, tops. Just…”

“ _No, John. The crime scene_ ,” she said, just as a constable came bustling in. 

“Dr Watson? You’ve got … there’s a woman outside …”

John shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned to find everyone staring at him. “Tell her I’ll be right there,” he said, forcing himself to focus on one problem at a time. “As near as I can tell, it looks like this woman was dead before the killer started using his knife—there’s just not enough blood otherwise. Asphyxiation seems the best bet, judging by the skin. I’d check to see if there are any fibers in her mouth or lungs. Dead 10–12 hours, I’d say, and now I’ve got to go.” He stripped off his gloves while he was talking and was already heading for the door as he finished.

“John? Where are you going?” Sherlock sounded almost bewildered.

“Everything okay, John?”

At least Lestrade sounded concerned, thought John as he gave a nod. “Family emergency. Sorry. I’ll see you back at the flat later, Sherlock.”

He edged out the door and hurried through the flat and out to the street, trying to ignore the trail of curious people following him. Seriously, there was a woman lying dead inside and they were being nosy about his personal life? But all that dropped away when he saw Clara, standing by the tape line looking like she was about to burst into tears, as if the only thing preventing it was sheer force of will. 

That, and the hand of the equally-distraught nine year-old boy standing right next to her. 

“Clara,” John said in greeting as his eyes went straight to the tear-streaks on the boy’s face. “Ian, you doing okay?”

The boy nodded and then switched to a head-shake as his face crumpled and he ducked under the tape to fling himself into John’s arms as Clara said, “I’m sorry, John, but I just can’t deal with her right now, and I can’t leave him alone, and it’s Hannah’s day off. Can you take him?”

“I…” John was kneeling now, soothing the boy as best he could. He thought about the state of their flat, thought about Sherlock and his tendency to run out the door, expecting John to be right behind him. He thought about how ill-fit his lifestyle was to look after a child, how little experience he had. But … what was he supposed to do? 

Without even thinking about it, his arms curled protectively around the boy’s shoulders, unwilling to let him go. And, really, he owed her. He nodded. “Of course. How did you find me?”

She gave a small, frozen smile. “You have her phone.”

Right, of course, thought John. And he had never thought to disable the tracking, so of course she would be able to track her spouse’s phone. Ex-spouse. Whatever. “ How long…?”

She thrust a rucksack at him. “There are a couple changes there, hopefully they’ll be enough until Harry’s capable again. Be good for John, okay, sweet boy? I’ll see you soon?” Leaning forward, Clara gave Ian a kiss and then placed a quick peck on John’s cheek as well, her eyes moist. “Thanks, John. Sorry.” 

Before he could say anything, she was gone. John rose to his feet, boy still in his arms and turned to see Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan all standing, staring. “Ex-girlfriend, John?” Sally asked, a sneer in her voice.

“Ex-, current-, soon-to-be-ex-again sister-in-law, actually,” he said, keeping his voice as even and calm as he could.

“So, this is your nephew then?” asked Lestrade in a friendly voice as he smiled at the tearful child in John’s arms.

“Something like that,” said John. “Look … I need to… I’ll see you all later. Come on, Ian.”

And picking up the rucksack, he walked away.

 

#

 

Sherlock didn’t know what to expect when he arrived home later. He was still reeling from the surprise that John had a nephew. Or, not so much that he had one, but that Sherlock had missed all the signs.

Because of course John Watson would be a responsible uncle, one who his sister could rely on in an emergency. Dropping him off at a crime scene was unexpected, of course, but clearly this had been a crisis. John’s sister had apparently gotten drunk and alienated her wife to such a degree Clara didn’t even want to stay in the house. Naturally, she couldn’t leave the boy alone with an inebriated mother … though he was uncertain why she felt she needed to leave the child with John rather than bringing him with her…

Still, family emergencies happened, he supposed. He just hoped it wouldn’t be a common occurrence. The thought of having a child at 221B at all was annoying, but if this were going to be a regular habit … He supposed he needed to be patient. He already knew John and Harry didn’t get along. John wouldn’t want responsibility for her child any more than necessary.

Or at least he hoped not. Sherlock didn’t have anything against children … particularly. Unless they were running in circles or making a mess, they weren’t any more annoying than adult people—if anything, their open minds and untrained, but willing way of observing the world made them less annoying. Being children, they weren’t expected to know things (yet) … so it wasn’t actually their fault when they didn’t. In fact, they usually appreciated your teaching them things—unless you opted to use the wrong word or discussed dissecting kittens or something else that made them inexplicably start to cry, because crying very definitely was annoying. 

No, as long as they behaved themselves, children weren’t impossibly annoying.

But that didn’t mean he wanted one in his flat.

He considered the way John had avoided Harry’s phone call earlier. He thought about the desperate look on Clara’s face when she dropped off the child—the way her hand had curved around his head, the way her shoulders had straightened as she walked away. She had looked for all the world like a woman saying a permanent goodbye. 

That was curious, though. Even if she and Harry were getting divorced, wouldn’t Clara be the likely one to get custody, not being an alcoholic herself? (Not only had John never mentioned such a thing, but her skin tone and the colour of her fingernails argued for her being clean.) 

He thought again about the little boy, the shade of his hair, the tilt of his nose. He looked like a Watson, and he assumed that Harry had been the biological mother but … flashing back to Clara’s distraught departure, the way John had wrapped his arms around the child … what if John had been the father? But, still, wouldn’t that logically mean that Clara would have been the biological mother, and therefore have more legal rights than her farewell just now had implied?

John would probably tell him it was wrong to be so delighted at the prospect of a mystery that held a bereft little boy at the heart of it.

 

#

 

With unusual thoughtfulness, Sherlock refrained from bounding into the flat with his usual energy, just in case John’s nephew (?) was still there and sleeping. It would be prudent not to frighten the child, which would only put John in a bad mood.

He found the boy awake and sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and sipping at a mug as he watched telly. John was sitting next to him, book in his lap. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said. “You’re later than I expected. You weren’t avoiding us, I hope?”

There was a twinkle in his eye, so Sherlock deduced that John was teasing him. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was helping Lestrade with the case. You were right, the woman was killed with a…”

John cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off with a sharp look at the child. Of course. He supposed the gorier bits of information about a murder weren’t exactly appropriate conversation in front of a … nine year-old?

“Of course,” was all he said, trying not to stare at the boy, but unable to stop cataloguing the shape of his fingers and curve of his ear. The way the two of them were tilting their heads at just the same … oh.

“Questions?” 

Sherlock looked at his friend, noting the white at the lips, the lines of strain in the forehead, as his fingers curled around the boy’s shoulder. Then, before he could help himself, he asked, “He’s not your nephew, is he?”

John’s smile grew wistful as he said, “Ian, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Ian … my son.”

 

#

 

“You have a son?” Sherlock was unused to hearing his own voice sounding so surprised.

John just nodded, face wary. “I do, don’t I, Ian?”

The child nodded his blond head. “But I live with my aunts because Dad was in the army.”

“I … see,” said Sherlock, and he did. Of course John wouldn’t have been able to look after a child while he was deployed. But what had happened to…?

John had a smile on his face, as if he knew exactly what was going through Sherlock’s head (and wasn’t that a change of pace!). He leaned toward his son and whispered loudly, “He’s wondering what happened to your Mum. Do you think we should tell him? Or let him figure it out?”

The boy … Ian … giggled a bit. “Can he?”

“Oh yes. Sherlock can figure out almost everything.” He looked over at Sherlock face alight with something that almost looked like affection. “Well? You’re not going to keep the boy waiting, are you?”

“I … no,” Sherlock said, stammering a bit as he tried to find his metaphorical footing … and, really, he had never understood before, when people talked about earth-shattering news, because that was just illogical, and yet this news—John had a son—was such that could change, well, everything, and suddenly the world didn’t seem quite as steady as it had been ten minutes ago. Focus, he told himself, forcing himself to look at the child with his blond hair and dark brown eyes—eyes he couldn’t have gotten from John or Clara, so no, John had not merely been a sperm donor for his gay sister’s family. Nor was John Watson a man to lightly eschew his responsibilities. It would have been uncharacteristic of him to have a child and then join the army, but going by the time-frame he knew, the years of service, and Ian’s age…

“She died? Your … wife?”

“What makes you think we were married?” John asked, amused challenge in his eyes.

Sherlock thought blurting out “because it’s you” wasn’t quite what John was looking for, even though it was true. They’d only shared a flat for a few months, but Sherlock had known of John’s strong moral fibre since the night he’d shot the cabbie. “Because you’re a man who cares deeply about family,” he finally said. “But you also live up to your responsibilities. You would never have left for the army and left a child behind unless he was being cared for by his mother.”

John looked faintly disappointed, and judging by the way Ian snuggled up against him, he had missed the mark. “Not quite,” said John after a moment. “Mary didn’t discover she was pregnant until after I’d enlisted, which is a story in itself. I was overseas when Ian was born. Mary … died … of complications. Harry and Clara wanted a baby, though, so … they took Ian while I continued with my military service. He was happy with them and I wasn’t ready to come home yet, and it all worked wonderfully until a year or so ago.”

“When they separated,” Sherlock said, watching the stricken look on the child’s face. 

“And then I…” John glanced down, and then said, “I had to come home, but I didn’t have a house suitable for a little boy, did I, Ian? And they were trying to make things work, so we all agreed to leave things as they were.”

“Except Harry’s started drinking again.”

John nodded. “And that’s the one thing Clara won’t put up with, and that makes things difficult for Ian here, doesn’t it, my lad?”

His son nodded. “They fight all the time, and Mum naps a lot.”

Meaning drunk and unconscious, thought Sherlock, as he wondered what this was going to mean for them … for him. He’d finally found not only a decent flatmate, but a _friend_ , but he knew John … and John was not going to let a little thing like a congenial flat keep him from providing a secure home for his child. If the prior arrangement was falling apart, John was going to have to step up, and how was that going to affect them? 

Because, watching the two of them on the couch, Sherlock only now realized how little he wanted to be alone again.

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

The bell rang fairly early the next morning, heralding Lestrade and Donovan before breakfast had even been finished. Or entirely started, for that matter. John had made tea but was waiting for Ian to wake up before actually eating anything. 

“Sherlock, John,” Lestrade said by way of greeting. “Sorry to bother you so early. We’ve got a possible kidnapping.”

Sherlock lifted his brow. “Possible, inspector?”

“The mother was ill yesterday, and when the nanny came in today, she couldn’t find the boy. We’re not quite sure if he’s runaway or if he’s been taken. Apparently the father isn’t in the picture, and while the nanny said he has visitation rights, she’s been trying his phone but there’s no answer, which makes it suspicious.”

“This doesn’t seem like your usual case, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Nor does it sound like one you need me for.”

“Apparently the kid is the grandson of an earl, or something. I don’t have all the details, but we’re heading over to the scene now. I know how you like to get your impressions first, so…”

“What’s the child’s name?” John asked, a curiously strained expression on his face, one that Sherlock couldn’t quite identify.

Lestrade pulled out his notes. “Er … Ian Brandon. Nine years old. And he’s the _great_ -grandson of the Earl of Undershaw.”

John had sprung to his feet and was rummaging at the desk. He swore as he held up his phone. “Crap. The battery’s dead.” 

Sherlock watched as John fumbled for the charger and plugged in the phone. He turned it on and winced when he saw the number of messages, and then hurriedly placed a call. “Hannah? It’s John. Didn’t Clara tell you? Ian’s with me. She dropped him off yesterday. Yes, he’s asleep upstairs. He’s fine. Yes, I know. If you could stand them down? Right. Yes. I’ll let you know later on. And … I’m assuming you told… right. I’ll call him next.”

He ended the call and glanced over at the others, and this time Sherlock recognized the chagrin on his face, blended with embarrassment. He was already placing another call as he looked at Lestrade. “You can stand down, Greg. You actually met … Hello? Grandfather? Ian’s fine. Hannah over-reacted. Apparently Harry was so drunk yesterday, Clara didn’t want to leave him with her, and since it was Hannah’s day off and Clara couldn’t bear staying in the flat, she dropped him off with me. He’s fine. Yes, I know, I’m sorry. My phone died and I didn’t realize.” 

He spoke for a few more minutes while Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan stared. None of them were quite sure what was going on (something Sherlock at least was unused to), but he was reluctant to get in the way of John’s urgent phone call. He was still having trouble absorbing the fact that apparently John’s grandfather was an earl.

In fact, as soon as John had ended his call, Sherlock blurted it out. “Your grandfather’s an earl?”

John pulled in a deep breath. “Yeah.” He looked over to Lestrade. “Sorry about that. Ian’s nanny is well-meaning but not the brightest of girls. When she came to work this morning and found Harry still unconscious from yesterday’s bender and Ian nowhere in sight, she panicked. Obviously my phone isn’t as reliable as it used to be, because it completely failed on the job, and since nobody could reach me … I can’t believe she went to the police with this.”

“But … an _earl_?”

John winced at the disbelief in Lestrade’s tone. “Yeah. And you met Ian yesterday, when Clara dropped him off.”

“But,” said Donovan, sounding bewildered, “That was your nephew, wasn’t it?”

John shook his head. “It’s a long story, but no, that’s my son.” He pulled his wallet out and removed two photos, which he handed to Sherlock. The first was of John and a petite blonde in wedding clothes, beaming at the camera. The second, a weary mother holding a newborn. He handed the pictures to Lestrade as John explained. “Mary died when Ian was only three days old, and since I was still deployed overseas, my sister and her wife took him in. It’s just that now that their marriage is falling apart—again—well, it’s not working anymore.”

There was a noise from the stairs and Sherlock looked up to see Ian hesitating by the doorway, hair tousled and face still bleary from sleep. “I’m sorry. I can come back…”

“No, come in. This is actually about you,” John said, reaching out a hand, curving it around his son’s head. “Hannah over-reacted.”

The boy groaned. “She didn’t call the police again, did she?”

“Again?”

He nodded. “Grandfather told her she should call him first if there are problems, but she doesn’t listen.”

Lestrade took a step forward and said, his voice friendly, “We sort of met yesterday. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. I often work with John, er, your dad.”

Ian stepped forward and held out his hand. “Ian Brandon. Nice to meet you.”

“Brandon?” He looked at John. “He goes by your sister’s name, then?”

John shook his head. “No, he uses mine. My full name’s John Hamish Watson Brandon—I use my mother’s name professionally. Ian, are you hungry?”

At the child’s nod, he moved toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make some tea, and you can ask your questions while we eat.”

 

#

 

John ignored the others as he moved around the kitchen, pulling out the cereal, milk, and juice he’d bought yesterday. He focused on his son, trying not to think about how few times he’d made him breakfast in his lifetime—and how doing so in front of the police wasn’t exactly the way he’d dreamed about this moment. 

Still, he concentrated on putting Ian at ease. Luckily for him, Ian had inherited his own easy-going nature instead of Mary’s high-strung one. He had treated his visit so far as more of an adventure than anything, and the idea of eating in front of Sherlock and two police officers didn’t seem to faze him at all. Ian answered questions like, “Do you want eggs?” “More toast?” but otherwise just sat quietly and watched the goings-on with interest.

John totally understood—he felt the same way when Sherlock and Donovan were in a room together. It was hard to find higher entertainment value these days.

Lestrade waited patiently while they ate, making idle small talk, but not addressing the bigger questions (and John admitted the questions were really quite big). He asked Ian about school and which football teams he liked, but didn’t go near the reasons he was visiting with his father today. He didn’t mention Clara or Harry’s drinking. Nor did he address how John had left his son to be raised by someone else.

Donovan more or less just glared at all of them—except for Ian. Ian got sympathetic looks—presumably for his non-traditional upbringing.

Sherlock just looked intrigued. John hadn’t decided yet whether that was encouraging or really frightening.

They had finished eating and John was just at about to send Ian upstairs to get dressed when the doorbell rang. He heard Mrs Hudson answering and telling the callers to go right up. He turned to look to see who it was, and was almost knocked over by a three-foot blur as Ian flew by, shouting, “Granddad!”

Sure enough, there was John’s father, with his 89-year old grandfather struggling up the stairs behind him. Damn it, he thought. What were they thinking? He tried not to think about the mess spread across the flat as he stepped forward past the goggling Lestrade and Donovan to say hello. “Father, Grandfather, this is unexpected. May I introduce my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes? And this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan from Scotland Yard. This is my grandfather, David Brandon, the Earl of Undershaw, and my father, Jonathan Brandon.” He looked at the latest arrivals. “We’ve only just finished breakfast. We would have come to you, you know.”

“After the chaotic morning, we wanted to see Ian for ourselves,” said Jonathan. “But … the police, John? I’m so sorry, detective inspector. It seems our nanny over-reacted. I do apologize, though I’m impressed you made it here so quickly.”

Lestrade gave a small shrug. “To be honest, we didn’t know Ian was here when we arrived.”

“No?”

“We were actually hoping to ask for Sherlock and John’s help to _find_ the boy, not realizing that he was John’s son…”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit confused,” John’s grandfather said, walking slowly over to Sherlock’s chair to sit down.

“That’s my fault,” John said, walking over and handing the elderly man a cup of tea. “I never told you that my flatmate is a Consulting Detective. He helps the police out, solving cases—usually the confusing ones. It’s just sheer luck that the case was assigned to Greg and that he came here on the way to Harry’s to ask for Sherlock’s help. As soon as he said the name, I was able to clear things up. As luck would have it, Clara handed Ian over in front of the police yesterday, so I’m not in trouble for kidnapping, either—or at least, I hope not.”

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head while Sherlock looked indignant. “I would have got you off if they had, John.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” John just shook his head. “I still can’t believe Hannah called the police. Didn’t Clara leave a note, or something?”

“Apparently not,” his grandfather said, smiling at Ian. “If this keeps up, we’re going to need to get you your own phone, my boy, since your father’s doesn’t seem reliable enough.”

“I don’t know how it lost its charge so fast,” said John, wanting to kick himself for letting all this happen. “I should probably get a new one.”

“I took care of that already,” said his father, calmly sipping at his cup. “I hadn’t realized your phone was unreliable. We’re adding you to the family service plan—your new phone should be here this afternoon.”

“That’s not necessa…” John started, but his grandfather cut him off.

“No, but it’s efficient. I thought you liked efficiency? I had no idea you were using Harry’s old phone. There’s no reason for that.”

“It works just fine, Grandfather. Er, well, usually,” John said. “I don’t need a new phone…”

“But you’re getting one.”

John wanted to scream. He wasn’t 12 years-old anymore. He’d been in the army, fought in a war, had been married and widowed. He had a son. He wasn’t a child, so why did they persist in treating him like one? It didn’t help that Sherlock was smirking in amusement and Donovan, of all people, was hiding a smile. He was never going to live this down.

He tried to recover, though, by saying, “I really am sorry about this mess, but Ian’s fine.”

His son nodded happily. “Isn’t his flat wonderful? They’ve got a real human skull, and everything!”

John had watched his relatives eyeing the flat and braced himself for their commentary—221B might as well be in an entirely separate world from the elegant homes the rest of his family lived in.

“It’s interesting, certainly,” John’s father said with a smile. “I imagine most of these things are yours, Mr Holmes? John’s never been one to acquire many possessions.”

His flatmate nodded. “Please call me Sherlock, and, yes. I believe John had all of three boxes and a duffel bag when he moved in.”

John shrugged. “I was in the army. I didn’t have a chance to accumulate much. The rest is in storage.” He tried to ignore the sudden interest he saw on Sherlock’s face, presumably already planning on excavating John’s life.

He was relieved when Lestrade said, “Fascinating as this all is, Donovan and I have duties to get back to. This case may have been solved in record time, but there are always more of them. I’m guessing this young lad doesn’t need a ride home?

“No, thank you, Greg,” said John. “I’m sorry Hannah overreacted and caused all this fuss.”

Donovan spoke for the first time since his father and grandfather arrived. “I’d like to know why they didn’t come find you, when you didn’t answer your phone? If they were so frantic?”

Leave it to Donovan, John thought. “Probably because I never gave Harry my address. She’d be over here all the time, and,” he glanced at Sherlock. “That wouldn’t be good.”

“I knew it,” Donovan said with a smirk, “You don’t want people to know you live with the frea…”

“Donovan!” Lestrade said, voice sharp and loud and it brought all noise and movement in the room to a halt.

She looked around at the frozen faces and looked over at John’s grandfather as if realizing she had just been reprimanded in front of an _Earl_. “Sorry,” was all she said, and John saw the abashment on her face—but it was the fact that she was more upset about the audience than in her unprofessional behaviour that tipped him over the edge. 

He paused barely a moment before saying, “You should know by now that I have a vastly different opinion of Sherlock than you do, Donovan. It might also surprise you to realize that my life doesn’t revolve entirely around him. Judging by the events of today, you might perhaps consider there are reasons I choose not to give my emotionally-needy, over-reacting sister my address, hmm? Not to mention some very good reasons that I haven’t shared these interesting tidbits about my family and my personal life with a woman whose discretion and professionalism I have serious cause to doubt?”

John tried not to look at Sherlock, whose face was a picture of satisfaction at seeing Donovan being told off. He couldn’t look at his father or grandfather, either, for fear they’d think poorly of his manners. (They sometimes forgot that years in the army and as a doctor—not to mention living with Sherlock—could be detrimental to habits of polite conversation.) From the corner of his eye, he could see an admiring look on Ian’s face, but mostly, John kept his eyes on Sally, keeping his face as neutral and polite as possible, but not backing down.

“Er … right,” she finally said, looking utterly flummoxed.

Lestrade finally stepped up to let her off the hook. “Yes, we’ll have a little talk about this on the way back to the Yard, John. And don’t worry about the paperwork. So far as I’m concerned, none of this ever happened, though it was a pleasure to meet your family. You should bring your son to visit, some day. Come on, Donovan. We’ll let ourselves out.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit to being surprised that the idea of John's child took so many people by surprise ... to me, it was the logical next step in this little series of AUs!
> 
> And, no, I know this scenario of the police investigating a missing child so quickly probably wouldn't happen (especially not with it being Lestrade), but ... wasn't this a fun way of having them find out? So ... needs must!


	3. Chapter 3

After Lestrade and Donovan left, Sherlock stayed by the doorway watching the Watsons … no, the Brandons … as they reconnected. He found himself bemused by the fact that both men had rushed over after John’s call this morning. He understood being concerned about a missing child, but the boy was fine, wasn’t he? He’d spent a safe and uneventful night with his father, had never been in any danger, so why were they worrying now?

Of course, not every family was like his. The Holmes family never concerned itself with fuzzy feelings and sentiment. They cared about one another, he supposed, but in a more rational way than he’d observed with other clans. 

Mycroft had often tried to imply that this was because of their high-standing, saying that emotional outpourings were for the middle classes, that the British stiff upper lip was personified by its nobility. Not that the Holmes family was exactly noble, anymore, though there were a handful of ancestors who had been knights or viscounts or something that Sherlock never really paid much attention to. (His lack of fascination with the Holmes family history was apparently just one more way for him to fail in his obligations.)

But, here was John’s family—his grandfather a current, breathing Earl—and they showed each other actual affection. 

He paid so little attention to the inner workings of the nobility. He wasn’t sure if this was something that was inherited or earned. If John’s grandfather was an earl, did that mean his father would inherit the title? Would John? 

The thought of John Watson (Brandon?) as an earl was … incomprehensible. And Sherlock disliked when things were incomprehensible.

He hesitated to intrude on the family gathering, though. (Despite what Donovan believed, Sherlock did have a working knowledge of basic manners. He did understand the need for discretion, even if he didn’t always choose to apply it.) Anyway, it was fascinating watching four generations of John’s family interacting. 

His father and grandfather were similar in their mannerisms—both obviously used to the finer things in life and the extreme, phony politeness of “good” society. John, on the other hand, was deceptively … common. His manners were comfortable and easy, his accent relaxed. He was open and straight-forward and therefore totally unlike the people Sherlock had grown up with.

What truly shocked him was that Sherlock had never, not once, even _suspected_ John had nobility in his background. Where had he been raised, he wondered. What schools had he gone to? A slightly different accent was emerging as he talked with his grandfather, but Sherlock knew accents, and recognized this as one that was just as authentic as the one John normally used. It wasn’t put on, or made up just for the company, rather it was just as much John’s as the clothes he wore. Sherlock amused himself for a moment, picturing John selecting his accents to match his clothing for the day, much like another man would choose between a red or blue necktie.

“Sherlock?”

He blinked, pulled out of his thoughts. “Sorry?”

John looked amused. “My grandfather had a question for you.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, looking at the man, recognizing the gleam of interest in his eye. “What was the question?”

“I asked how your parents were. Violet and Sigerson, weren’t they? I knew them a long time ago.”

That … was unexpected. “My father passed on several years ago from a heart attack, but my mother does what she can to uphold the family traditions. I don’t see her much.”

“Sherlock sees more of his brother,” John said, “I’m almost surprised he hasn’t shown up, to be honest.”

“Mycroft?” scoffed Sherlock. “That would be too much like legwork. He’ll just ask you the next time he kidnaps you.”

“Kidnaps?” John’s father sounded shocked, he thought, and realized that he probably shouldn’t have said that aloud.

John just chuckled, though. “He’s joking, of course. Mycroft likes to keep close tabs on his brother, but since Sherlock chooses not to talk to him, he sends round a car to pick me up on a fairly regular basis so he can grill me instead—politely.” He paused for a moment and then added, “He does seem to have a penchant for deserted warehouses, though. I really do need to see if I can get him to start using coffee shops instead.”

“This is Mycroft Holmes?” Jonathan asked. “Don’t I remember Harry talking about him when she was at school?”

Sherlock wondered if he had the same blend of glee, terror, and anticipation on his face as John had on his. “Harry knew Mycroft? But how is that possible?” John asked.

Jonathan smiled. “They didn’t go to the same schools, obviously, but I think their ages are close enough that the circles would have been similar—though Harry was never that interested in school. If I remember correctly, she didn’t think much of your brother, Sherlock, because he _did_.”

Sherlock affected a bored look, though his brain was busy exploring the ramifications that his and John’s siblings had once known each other. “That would be Mycroft,” he said dryly. “If it was something he could learn from a book, he loved it. Otherwise, he wasn’t interested.”

John still looked fascinated—and appalled. “The thought of Harry and Mycroft knowing each other had never occurred to me … which is good, because I find that prospect absolutely terrifying.”

“Just think, John,” his grandfather said, teasing, “You and Sherlock could have been in-laws.”

“Oh, Grandfather, don’t even joke about that,” said John. “If we had met back then, we would probably have hated each other.”

Really? Sherlock couldn’t help a twinge at hearing that. If he and John had known each other twenty years ago, things would have been so different. Would it have been so terrible? Though … considering the satisfaction he derived from their current situation, would he have wanted to risk it? Would John have been the same person without the army experience, without being shot? (His own history with cocaine he didn’t believe made a difference one way or another.)

Still, the Watson/Brandons were teasing now about Harry being gay and how that would have been unfair to Mycroft, which was a laugh all on its own, considering how Mycroft spent all his time and energy at work as it was. (Well, work and interfering in Sherlock’s life.) He would never have had the time for a wife as well … though Sherlock suddenly wondered if Mycroft would have relaxed his hold on him if he’d had a spouse that needed him. Like, say, an alcoholic wife that needed time and attention?

No, what was he thinking? It would never have worked. He just would have driven Harry to drink that much more quickly. They were talking about Mycroft, after all.

Except it appeared they weren’t anymore. Apparently the topic had changed while Sherlock was musing, because John was watching with that amused look again as his father repeated his question about Sherlock’s education. “Oh, Eton, and then Cambridge, but they were dull,” Sherlock said. He looked at John, though, suddenly struck by a question. “How did you manage to escape?”

“The traditional schools, you mean? Thank my mother for that. She wanted Harry and me to have a good education, but she wanted us to be able to actually talk to normal people, as well. It was rather an obsession of hers.”

“I remember the arguments,” his father said, making a face. “I agreed on principle, but in practice … we were going against generations of tradition and for the next in line … well. Luckily for John, his mother was an excellent debater. Decades of tradition and I didn’t stand a chance.”

Sherlock barely heard any of this, still stuck at the thought of John as … an earl? That seemed so … so … like such a waste! John had made his own way in the world, not relying on his family, so far as Sherlock could see (other than for childcare). To be tied down to the traditional, archaic role of Earl? That just seemed wrong … as if Mycroft had managed to force Sherlock into the desk job he’d wanted him to take.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said, still amused but with a hint of concern in his voice. “Being an earl isn’t quite as much work these days.”

Sherlock noted the way John was looking at his son, and had another flash of realization—this room not only held four generations of John’s family, but four _Earls_ , present and future. That seemed … impossible. Ominous, almost, as if the weight of that much tradition in one room was too much, too tempting for fate.

But, that was ridiculous. Sherlock didn’t believe in fate, and therefore did not believe you could tempt it. It was just the name superstitious fools used for chance.

 

#

 

John waved goodbye to his father and grandfather and then closed the door with a sigh before turning back toward the stairs. It wasn’t even noon and he was exhausted already. What had Hannah been thinking, calling the police and saying Ian had been kidnapped? And this had happened before?

He didn’t know if he was more appalled that this wasn’t the first time, or that he hadn’t heard a word from Harry. Not one of the missed texts or messages on his phone was from her. What kind of care had she been giving his son all these years? Though, he supposed with the drinking, it wasn’t surprising that Clara had probably been the reliable one. 

He looked up the stairs, stalling. The minute he was up there, he was going to have to face Sherlock’s questions, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. It was almost a relief when Mrs Hudson came out of her flat. “Is everything all right, John? That was quite a crowd you had this morning.”

“You should have joined us,” he told her with a smile. “In fact—there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I would have introduced you last night, but you were out.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding almost disappointed. “You had an overnight … guest, then? And those gentlemen from before were…?”

“My father and grandfather,” John said, following her to the stairs. “They wanted to see him.”

He heard her say “Oh” again, and wondered at the tone. Had he upset her? He knew they’d never discussed having children at the flat, but she couldn’t be upset over one overnight stay, could she? “Anyway, he’s upstairs with Sherlock…”

“Oh, John, that’s just cruel,” she said as she started up the steps.

Cruel? That seemed harsh. Sherlock might not have the best social skills, but John didn’t think he was going to make Ian cry … not after just five minutes.

He saw Mrs Hudson come to a surprised halt, skirt swirling against her legs at her abrupt stop. He saw her glance back at him, a look of delight dawning on her face, and then she was entering the room. “Who’s this, then?”

“Mrs Hudson, may I introduce my son, Ian Brandon? Ian, this is Mrs Hudson, the best landlady in the country—but very definitely not our housekeeper.”

Ian turned away from the kitchen table, where Sherlock was doing something-hopefully-not-toxic and held out his hand. “How do you do,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Mrs Hudson looked utterly delighted. “Don’t you have excellent manners! Though if you’ve been listening to Sherlock…”

“Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, affronted, “As if I would say anything negative about you to John’s son. That would be detrimental to my health and, besides, I never lie unless it’s worth my while.”

“And saying anything negative about you would definitely be against his best interests,” John said from the doorway. “Ian, Mrs Hudson is a saint for putting up with both of us.”

“Nonsense, your father is a pleasure,” she said warmly as Sherlock muttered something about sycophants. “But you? I’ve not heard much about you at all!” John was grateful that she didn’t say she hadn’t heard about him at all, as she asked how old he was.

“I’m nine,” Ian told her. “I’ll be ten in December.”

“And … you live with your mother?” she asked, giving John a hesitant look.

John shook his head. “Technically, he lives with his aunt.” He walked over to the coffee table, where Donovan had left the photos he’s shown earlier. He picked them up, absently giving Mary’s face a caress with his thumb as he handed them to his landlady. “That’s Mary. She died shortly after Ian was born, while I was overseas. Harry and Clara were good enough to raise you, right?”

Ian nodded, biting at his lip, and John wondered how uncomfortable this conversation made him. He must have heard this explained a million times, but today probably hadn’t been the easiest. It wasn’t every day the story had to be told to the police in front of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather because his aunt was drunk and his nanny too stupid to call Jonathan like she was supposed to.

Mrs Hudson, though, was beaming at Ian as if he were the luckiest boy in the world. “So you’re visiting your father today, then?”

Ian gave a shy nod and John said, “Something like that. Things are … in flux at the moment.” He knew Mrs Hudson knew his sister was an alcoholic and hoped she wouldn’t press that line of conversation any further in front of Ian. 

“That’s wonderful. So, school’s out for the summer, I suppose? What are your plans?”

Ian nodded, and for the first time John realized … it was the poor kid’s holiday and everything was falling apart. The women who’d raised him were falling apart—both maritally and, in Harry’s case, in every other way. He could spend some time with his grandfather, of course, who had always enjoyed every possible minute with his grandson, but otherwise … he was left with either a nanny he was too old for (and something of an idiot) or the father he barely knew. 

Which was his fault, he thought. John was the one who had failed in his obligations here, opting to stay in the army rather than come home to raise his son. And since he’d come home? He had been in no shape to raise a child when he’d returned and had been content to spend Sunday afternoons with Ian. He had thought that Ian was better off in the home he’d grown up in, with the mothers he knew—better than a struggling, injured, ex-army doctor of a father—but clearly that was no longer the case. Children needed stability, and right now, Ian had anything but.

Mary would be furious with him, he thought, and would be right to. Just because his son was cared for, didn’t mean he was getting what he deserved from his father. From John. 

From him. 

He felt Sherlock watching him and glanced up, meeting the impassive, implacable gaze of his flatmate. Sherlock had an expressive face when he wanted, but when he was determined to keep it blank … John had no idea what the man was thinking. Probably terrified John was going to say something like…

“We’ll be watching him.”

John felt his jaw drop, even as he felt something loosen in his chest. Had Sherlock really said that?

He wasn’t the only one staring, and for a moment, Sherlock looked almost insulted. “What? Clearly his nanny—as if he weren’t too old for a nanny—is incompetent. Harry and Clara are, well, not available, and shouldn’t every boy spend time with his father? If his father is John, at least? Because luckily he couldn’t be more unlike my father, which is all to the good for all of us. And why are you all staring?”

“You mean that?” John finally managed to force the words out of his dry mouth, where they’d clung like Velcro. “You’d let Ian stay here?”

“It’s your home, too, John,” said Sherlock. “I don’t think it would be good for anyone if you had to move in with Harry, and Ian seems less annoying than most children. I can’t imagine Mrs Hudson would mind, so … why not?”

John was still trying to wrap his mind around this—not so much the thought of Ian staying (which had him properly flabbergasted), but that Sherlock was willing … that this might actually be possible. He looked down at Ian, almost dreading what he would see there. Would he be appalled? Frustrated at being taken away from his home so casually? Angry? Resigned?

Instead of any of these, he saw a huge smile spreading across his son’s face as he looked up at John and said, “Brilliant.”

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should be insulted at John’s surprise or not.

Granted, it had been something of a shock to realize John was a father, but he had quickly realized how it suited him. John was forever looking out for other people, protecting them, forcing them to eat … certainly he nagged Sherlock often enough. 

But, more than that, he observed the way John watched the boy. He might be relaxed, even casual, about showing it, but Sherlock knew desire when he saw it. He had seen the look on John’s face when their peaceful morning was interrupted, had seen the pride when he’d introduced Ian as his son. 

There was regret there, too. Sherlock might not indulge in it himself, but he was well aware that most people did. It was impossible to go through life without them—not if you ever accomplished anything at all. All of life’s choices involved trade-offs, after all—which career path to follow, who to marry, whether to look after your ailing parents or just send money. Just because Sherlock didn’t waste his time second-guessing his (altogether laudatory) decisions, didn’t mean other people were equally wise.

And, well, it wasn’t as if John was slouching, melancholic, through his life burdened with regrets. Sherlock knew him well enough to know that he was a man who stood by his choices.

But Sherlock was also smart enough to spot a turning point in John’s life road. With Harry’s marriage—and therefore John’s living arrangements for Ian—falling apart, he was going to have to either step up and take charge of the child himself, or find an alternative … and not only was John Watson not a man who shirked his responsibilities, Sherlock could see how badly he longed for time with his son—whether he knew it himself or not.

Which, ultimately, made the decision simple. 

Well, not _simple_ , exactly. Their flat only had two bedrooms. Sherlock used the kitchen for his science experiments—which was fine (so far as he was concerned) when there were only adults in residence, but could be problematic with a child. They had an irregular lifestyle, and a dangerous one. Mrs Hudson had never given them permission for a pet, much less a child. 

But, again, Sherlock was not blind. He could see that, if forced to it, John would choose his child over his friendship with Sherlock. Oh, he would keep in touch and might still assist on some cases, but … it wouldn’t be the same. Not even close. 

Having Ian live with them would change things, too, of course, but at least John would still be there. Sherlock had … well, he’d gotten used to having him around.

Ian seemed like a good child. He’d shown interest in Sherlock’s experiments, was intrigued by the skull, hadn’t wandered around touching things. Like his father, he seemed inquisitive and polite and, even allowing for him being on his best behaviour, well … Sherlock had seen worse children.

(Sherlock had _been_ a worse child, and was man enough to admit it. In retrospect, he had to acknowledge that his tutors deserved credit for not having strangled him in the years before he’d learned to control his tongue.)

Still, though, seeing the dumbstruck look on all three faces was rather insulting. Did his friends think he had no family feeling at all? Even he knew that family was important—particularly to John.

His phone rang and Sherlock glanced at it as it sat on the arm of his chair. Mycroft. Whatever he had to say could wait. Couldn’t he see Sherlock was busy? It’s not like he didn’t have cameras pointed at the windows, if not actually in the flat. There was no reason he needed to be interrupting now. This was important.

John was smiling down at the boy now … the boy whom Sherlock supposed he should get used to thinking of as Ian. “What do you think? If we can work out the details … because there _are_ things the four of us would need to discuss first … would you like to stay with us?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he had ever seen such a broad smile as the one that appeared on Ian’s face as he nodded … and then saw its mirror spreading across John’s. Mrs Hudson was watching the two of them indulgently and smiled at him as he managed to catch her eye. At least he didn’t seem to be in trouble. He was never entirely sure which of his behaviours was going to set people off.

“We only have two bedrooms,” John said, voice worried, but arm wrapped tightly around the child’s … Ian’s … shoulders. “But I suppose I could take the couch so Ian could have my bed.”

“With your shoulder?” Sherlock pointed out. That was a terrible idea. John would be crippled within a week. “Wouldn’t …Ian … be more comfortable on the couch?”

“Probably,” agreed John, “But the irregular hours we keep, he’d never get any sleep. What do you think, kid? My room’s not big, but if we get a camp bed, it could work for now.”

“Or we can clear out the room across the hall,” said Mrs Hudson. “If you’re talking about a visit of more than a few weeks, that would be more comfortable, don’t you think?”

“That … that would be good,” said John, stumbling over the words, “But don’t you need that space?”

“John,” she said, “You know as well as I that the top floor is just as large as this one. I think I can adjust my storage needs enough to carve out some space for your son … if you help, of course. I’m not as good at moving things as I used to be and…”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the way her words cut off as John lunged over to engulf her in a hug. He had been right, then, John had wanted a way to keep his son here.

He looked over at Ian, shyly excited as he looked between the three of them. It was almost refreshing, Sherlock thought, to meet a child who didn’t seem afraid of him. But then, this was John’s son. He’d expect nothing less. There would be adjustments, of course, but if it kept John here and happy, it would be worth it … wouldn’t it? As long as it didn’t interfere with the Work?

It might be difficult—these new constraints on John’s time—during the summer, but once school started again … Which was when he realized that he had just assumed Ian was staying. Permanently.

And that, surprisingly, it didn’t worry him. Or, not much.

After that, there was a lot of (boring) conversation. John said some very stern things about kitchens and food safety with children around. Also some very strong things about boys making unnecessary noise when Sherlock was working. He and Mrs Hudson discussed storage and extra rooms and how much extra a third bedroom should be on the rent. They even discussed the possibility of renting out 221C for Sherlock’s lab, so he could keep the more toxic parts of his work (not to mention the body parts) away from impressionable young eyes.

For a moment, Sherlock thought it odd that John was so cavalierly discussing all this extra expense when he was perpetually strapped for cash, but then realized … John was the grandson of an Earl. He might not be wealthy, but Sherlock was sure there were funds somewhere in the background that he could tap to support his son. For that matter, he had probably been funnelling it all towards Harry for the last nine years to cover childcare expenses. But if Ian were now to live with them, he could use that money here, instead.

And, anyway, even if John weren’t personally wealthy, there was bound to be family money there somewhere, much like there was for Sherlock. John might not be willing to ask for loans or bequests for himself, but for his son? 

Really, renting 221C for a lab did sound appealing.

 

#

 

John was making notes as he and Mrs Hudson discussed what needed to be done to make the room across from his suitable for Ian. 

It wasn’t that he needed to write all this down, exactly. It was more that, writing it down and seeing it all on paper helped make it feel real. Because, honestly, this all felt rather like a dream. The possibility of having Ian live with him had never seemed, well, possible before. First, John had been deployed abroad when his son was born, and while he might have applied for compassionate leave, the timing of a motherless nephew at the same time as Harry and Clara were starting to look into adoption had been serendipitous. 

He had never regretted that choice. He’d seen his son as often as possible, talked to him on the phone, sent gifts—made sure he was as much a part of his life as it was possible to be from several thousand miles away.

The fact that it had all held together as long as it did was something to be grateful for. Maybe he should have looked into taking Ian back sooner, but he hadn’t wanted to disrupt his son’s life. He wouldn’t have been the best father right after being invalided home, either—it had seemed best for Ian to let him stay with Harry and Clara until John was settled and they could all start talking about what would be best for the boy.

But then Harry and Clara’s marriage took a nose-dive—just as John found his impossibly clever and addictive flatmate. He had allowed himself to be sucked into the Work with Sherlock, had moved into 221B when he knew full well it wasn’t suited for a child, because he told himself Ian was happy where he was.

Having the whole structure crumble like a sand castle falling to the inexorable tide had probably been inevitable. 

Last time Harry and Clara had split, John’s father had stepped in to watch his grandson and shelter him from the worst of the abuse they shouted at each other. John had still been in the army then, and had been grateful for the help while he was stuck 4,000 miles away. Now, though, he was _here_ and it was up to him to protect Ian in whatever way he could.

As recently as this morning, he had thought that meant protecting him from Sherlock as well. Not physically, of course. Physically, Sherlock was only dangerous with regards to running a toxic experiment in the kitchen or accidentally knocking the child over as he paced around the living room. John might hope that Sherlock would make an effort to restrain his tongue in regards to his son, but nothing was going to stop Sherlock being Sherlock. 

For the last week, as the texts from Harry had gotten more frantic, he had been racking his brain trying to think of a solution. He hadn’t wanted to move out of 221B, but wasn’t sure he saw another choice.

Which made Sherlock’s offer that much more surprising.

He just wished he knew whether Sherlock thought Ian would be a long-term guest or a new, permanent resident. All he knew was that he was grateful either way. 

 

#

 

Things settled in surprisingly quickly, John thought a week later. Between the three of them (Mrs Hudson, Ian, and himself. Sherlock opted not to participate), they had cleared the small room near his of extra furniture. They had given it a fresh coat of blue paint and, while it could use some personal touches, right now, they were all happy. Ian had a safe, quiet place to sleep near his father.

Mrs Hudson was still over the moon at the thought of having a 9-year old living in 221B. When John asked her if she was worried about noise or damage, she’d simply said that Ian couldn’t be worse than Sherlock and, well, John had to agree.

For the first time since he’d finished school, John dipped into his trust fund to cover the expenses for 221C. As much as he prided himself on living within his means, he told Sherlock, if it were a matter of keeping Ian safe, he was willing to use the money his mother had left him. 

Sherlock had been surprisingly amenable to the change. He’d accepted the rules about food-and-only-food in the kitchen, with just a few short exchanges of dishes-aren’t-food,-neither-are-kettles,-John, and you-know-what-I-mean,-Sherlocks. He had also agreed that any violin playing in the night-time hours Ian was asleep would be done in 221C (though John expected that rule to be a constant struggle). But Sherlock had also insisted on covering the cost of his new lab space himself, for which John was grateful, if only because it proved his good intent.

Because John was still amazed at Sherlock’s forbearance. More than that, even, because his flatmate seemed actually intrigued by Ian.

It helped that Ian was quiet for a nine-year old. And curious. He and Sherlock seemed fascinated with each other. Sherlock never seemed to mind having to slow down to a child’s level, if only because Ian was so intrigued by, well, everything he had to say. If Sherlock had thrived on John’s support and adoration, he positively blossomed with Ian’s. 

John was starting to feel like father to both of them. 

“Lunch is ready,” he called over to them as they sat on the couch, pouring over a science textbook that should have been far too advanced for Ian.

“Later, John. Busy.” Sherlock didn’t even lift his head, but pointed at something in the book. “See, here? It’s because it’s an alkaline, not an acid, which means that…”

“Ian, you need to come eat.”

“But Sherlock says food just slows you down,” Ian said, protesting.

“Yeah, well, Sherlock may be a genius, but he knows nothing about nutrition and the way the body actually fuels the brain. I shudder to think how brilliant he would be if he actually ate properly. You, though, have no choice. Come eat.”

Grumbling, Ian complied and John suppressed a grin as Sherlock trailed into the kitchen behind him. Maybe they’d be good influences on each other? 

Either that, or just make each other worse. 

#


	5. Chapter 5

“So, how’s it going, John?”

“Hmm?” John pulled his attention away from Sherlock’s crime scene antics to look at Lestrade.

“With your son. Settling in all right?” 

He nodded. “Remarkably well, in fact, even if we’re still working out the wrinkles.”

“I’d imagine Sherlock causes a few of those.”

“Not as many as you’d think,” said John. “He’s been really … helpful.”

“You sound surprised,” said Lestrade with a laugh.

“Well, not to be insulting, but … would you have thought putting Sherlock and a nine-year old together was a good idea? But it works surprisingly well.” He looked across the room where Sherlock was examining the top of the window. “It’s more a matter of logistics, making sure there’s someone to watch him when we get called away.”

“Gave up on the nanny?”

“Well, she was an idiot,” said Sherlock, not bothering to turn his head away from whatever interesting thing he was peering at through his magnifying glass. 

John gave a rueful nod. “She is a bit. Nice enough, but not the quickest thinker.”

“You need to have thoughts in your head to qualify as a thinker at all, John,” came Sherlock’s voice. “Seriously, pleasant and well-meaning doesn’t exactly mean reliable in a crisis. She was far too under-qualified to be looking after Ian.”

“Because apparently what we need,” John explained to Lestrade, a twinkle in his eye, “Is not so much a babysitter as a bodyguard.”

“For the freak?” Sally asked, entering the room and barging her way into the conversation.

“No, Donovan,” John said, deliberately calm. “For my son.”

“He isn’t back with his mother, or, er, his aunt again? Don’t tell me he’s still living with you two.”

Sherlock abruptly turned and breezed over. “A child living with his father, I know, it’s shocking. Lestrade, your killer climbed in through that window.”

“That’s not possible, Sherlock. There are no signs of forced entry.”

“Not precisely, no, except that there had been an air conditioning unit in that window, which is now absent. The killer managed to remove the unit to access the room, and then took it with him when he left. You’ll probably find it discarded not too far from here, unless some overheated person has claimed it by now. You can see the marks where the unit had been, and there’s still dust on the floor from its removal, so it was recent.” He gave a quick glance at all of them and then clapped his hands together. “Now, if that’s all, we should go reclaim your son, John.”

“Reclaim him?”

“We dropped him with my father on our way,” said John. “Harry’s … unavailable … and Mrs Hudson was busy today. Anyway, we’re trying not to impose on her too much, she’s been so helpful. We just need to find someone who would be available to take him at a moment’s notice for an unspecified number of hours … somehow, that’s harder than you’d think.”

He acknowledged Lestrade’s sympathetic smile as the man said, “Some people like freelancer’s hours.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got some weird hours. The retainer would have to be huge.”

“You can afford it, though, can’t you?” asked Donovan. “What with your father being…”

“Donovan,” Lestrade said, a warning note clear in his voice. “What did I tell you?”

“It’s not like everyone doesn’t know, sir,” she said, protesting.

“Maybe not, but it’s still inappropriate.” He nodded at John. “I’ll keep an ear out, see if I hear anything.”

“Thanks, that’d be great.” John looked over at Sherlock and, nodding, pulled out his phone to call his father.

“Nice mobile there, John,” Lestrade said, not able to resist the grin.

“Yes, thank you,” John said. “You don’t need to say anything. I could have bought my own in the first place, but Harry wanted to get rid of hers and at the time, it didn’t really matter much. I was trying to save money. Just … let it go?”

“He’s just jealous of you, John,” Sherlock said. “Your phone is much nicer than his now.”

“At least he paid for his own,” John grumbled, still hating feeling like he needed his daddy to provide for him—even as he relied on him for childcare. Really, had over-reacting Hannah been that bad? At least Ian had known her, been comfortable with her … though her penchant for calling the police over nothing was not really much of a selling point. 

Some of that must have shown on his face, because Lestrade shook his head and said, “No, actually, the Yard paid for mine.” He looked at Sherlock and pursed his lips. “I wonder if Sherlock pays for his own, or if it’s from his brother?”

“Leave my brother out of it,” Sherlock snapped. “Come, John, we should just have enough time for this lead before we need to pick up Ian.”

“We?” repeated John, surprised.

“Of course. Unless you’d rather go now and I’ll just go on ahead with the investigation without you?”

John couldn’t help but grin up at his flatmate. “Let you out on your own? Too much of a risk, I think. Ian’s better off where he is. See you later, Greg.”

 

#

 

It was surprising how easily John’s son had insinuated himself into their lives, Sherlock thought a fortnight later, as he watched the two of them bent over a jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table. Hmph, it’s not like they were using it for food, either, he thought, feeling the tiniest bit resentful about his chemistry set, banished to the basement. Somehow, the lack of complaints about his experiments took some of the savour away. 

Still, he thought, sinking even lower into the sofa cushions, he had to admit John seemed happy. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t realized how unhappy his flatmate had been until Ian had moved in and suddenly John was more cheerful, more relaxed. Not in a soppy, annoying way, dripping in sentiment, just … exuding satisfaction. He seemed fulfilled in a way he hadn’t been before. 

Ian himself was turning into something of a rare find. Inquisitive, asking good questions, but not annoying about it. Much like his father that way.

Three months ago, Sherlock would never have imagined this was possible—that he would not only have found a compatible flatmate, but that he’d be living with a nine-year old as well.

Because it was starting to look like this was going to be a permanent thing, this having Ian live here thing. According to John, Harry and Clara were not getting back together. Clara, in fact, had not been in touch with Ian since she’d dropped him off a month ago. He didn’t know enough about the Brandon family dynamics to know if this was unusual or not—the child was John’s, obviously, and not connected to Clara at all other than through her soon-to-be-dissolved marriage to Harry. Perhaps in light of the flimsy legal connection, she was cutting her ties voluntarily?

Not that John would have denied her visitation rights, he thought, watching the others laughing as Ian tried to fit an incorrect piece. It might even have been helpful, having one more person willing to look after him.

John’s extended family had been helpful in that regard, though. (And Sherlock was still getting used to the idea that John _had_ an extended family.) Not only was his father willing to watch after the boy, but a cousin with similarly-aged children had invited Ian over more than once.

And then there was Hannah. The incompetent girl who still somehow was engaged to look after Ian’s well-being as a last resort. “ _Ian likes her_ ,” John had said, “ _She knows CPR, makes his favourite sandwich, she’s good company, and she means well. She’s been talked to about the importance of communication before calling the police. She’ll be fine_.”

Sherlock sniffed, thinking about it. A pleasant demeanour did not equal competence, any more than the reverse was true. Mycroft, for example, was (he admitted begrudgingly) quite capable in his job, but that didn’t make him remotely palatable during visits. He wouldn’t trust Hannah in an emergency any more than he would trust Mycroft to entertain guests at a party.

Thinking of Mycroft, Sherlock smirked, remembering his brother’s reaction at learning John had a son. 

Really, he had to admire the skill John’s grandfather had put in obfuscating the records to conceal John’s marriage and child from a regular background check—something bobbing on the surface which Mycroft’s people would have sped past as they did their submarine dive into deep background … and yet they still hadn’t found John’s true past.

“ _Don’t tell me you and John are providing a home for his sister’s child now, Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft had said. 

It had almost been worth having him in the flat to be able to see the expression on his face when Sherlock told him that Ian was John’s son. “ _That’s not … he couldn’t have a son. There was no record of that,_ ” he had protested, and then looked even more abashed when Sherlock told him John’s full name.

He had no doubt that heads would roll in Mycroft’s little spy network for missing that detail. Between the fact that John had an Earl for a grandfather _and_ had a son by his dead wife (also missed in the background search) … yes, he had to admire the Brandon family for their skills. 

How had they done it, he wondered. It’s not that they had falsified records—that would have stood out like a sore thumb. So would the sudden appearance of John Watson if he hadn’t had appropriate birth records. No, all they had done had been to drop the surname he’d been born with and … what? Created two separate timelines for the same person living two separate lives?

It should have been impossible. In fact, it was impossible. That could have fooled a simple search, but Mycroft? No, he or one of his people would have spotted the discrepan…

**_—BOOM!—_ **

 

#

 

John laughed and reached over to pull the puzzle piece from Ian’s hand. “No, there’s no way that works for you. It clearly belongs over here—a patch of sand that clearly is part of the desert over here by me. You’ve got plenty of buildings over there to be working on. You pick a piece that has masonry.”

“But, Dad, the buildings are in the sand,” Ian protested, as John’s heart warmed at being called _Dad_ so casually, so naturally. “It’s not like they’re floating in mid-air.”

“Maybe not, but the odds are in my favour that that puzzle piece belongs on my side. Right _here_ , in fact,” he said, placing the piece in its correct spot. 

“Oh, sure, if you’re going to put it _there_ ,” said Ian, holding up a blue piece. “Wouldn’t you rather have this one?” 

“A piece of sky. In the middle of my sandy desert?”

“Yeah, it’s just what it needs.”

John was just opening his mouth to respond when an all-too-familiar sound came crashing through the window, bringing shards of glass and a flood of memories from 4,000 miles away.

Without even thinking, he grabbed Ian out of his chair and flung both of them to the floor, shielding him with his body as he yelled, “Get down!”

It was over in an instant, but with his son lying beneath him, tight with terror, it felt like forever. 

Still, the sound of tinkling glass subsided soon enough, and, looking back over his shoulder, he shouted, “Sherlock, stay put!” He looked at Ian, huddled in the cradle of his arms. His eyes were wide and he looked shaken, but he seemed unhurt. “You okay? You sure? Okay, stay _here_ while I check on Sherlock.”

“I’m fine, John,” came Sherlock’s voice, a little louder than usual. His hearing was probably affected by the blast concussion, thought John, mind racing. He swung around to his knees, feet crunching in the fine shards of glass rubbing into the floor. He could see larger shards, jagged and sharp, spread across the floor and took a moment to thank whatever watchful god had made sure Sherlock was safely on the couch and not standing in front of one of the windows when the blast happened, that Ian had been in the kitchen. 

“Don’t move, Sherlock,” he ordered. “The floor’s covered with glass and your feet are bare. Are you unhurt? Are you sure?” He was already heading toward Sherlock’s room, reaching for the first pair of shoes he came to.

“My ears are ringing, but I’m fine,” said Sherlock. “You? Ian?”

John glanced back into the kitchen where Ian sat huddled on the floor. “You okay for another minute? You need shoes, too, before you move, but first I need to make sure Mrs Hudson is all right.”

“Check on her, John,” said Sherlock, pulling the shoes on over his bare feet. “I’ll get Ian’s shoes.”

John nodded and headed for the stairs. Was Mrs Hudson in her flat? Hadn’t she said something about going to the shops? What if she’d been outside when it … whatever it was … had happened? He called her name as he hurried downstairs, and was relieved to hear her voice from her flat. 

“John? What happened? Are you boys all right?”

He gave her a quick hug and a quick look. “Thank God you’re all right. We’re fine, but there’s broken glass everywhere.” 

She was already headed for the stairs, but he paused to open the door to look outside. 

It was like a flashback, except all too real, he thought, at the tickle of pulverized masonry at the back of his throat and the sight of Baker Street covered in rubble, a huge hole in the façade across the street.

“Christ,” he said.

“Indeed,” came Sherlock’s voice from behind his shoulder. 

“Ian okay? I need to…”

Sherlock handed him his med-kit. “I knew you’d want it. I got it while fetching Ian’s shoes. He’s with Mrs Hudson and seems fine.”

John flashed a smile, already reaching for his jacket and moving toward the door. “Did you call 999?”

“I did, though I imagine I’m not the first.”

A quick nod, as John surveyed the street. “Your ears?”

“We’re all fine. Go look for people who might actually need your help, though statistically, this time of night…”

“Any injuries are too many, Sherlock,” John said, already moving, mentally shifting gears to address the matter at hand. This might not have been an actual bomb, but he knew more than most about what to do after an explosion. 

Gripping his bag, he started into the street.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: No, I really don’t have any explanation how Mycroft has missed these fairly important details about John’s past. Maybe it was the first day for whomever was running the background check (last day, too, presumably). Just blink a bit and go with it. It’s too much fun to leave him flatfooted at the revelation, I just like it to happen, no matter how unlikely. It’s fun—like Donovan-bashing.


	6. Chapter 6

“A gas explosion?” John said, disbelieving.

Maybe it was just fatigue. The ringing in his own ears last night had been negligible, but he hadn’t gotten much sleep, either. Immediately after the explosion, he had done what he could to search for wounded (luckily, none serious) and to begin to triage the worst of the damage. By the time the first responders had arrived, he had determined there were no serious injuries on the street and was checking the neighbours.

At some point, his phone had rung and, answering, he’d found his father on the other end. “ _I saw you on the news. Are you hurt? What about Ian?_ ”

The news? Of course there had been news cameras on site, thought John, though he’d been too busy to notice them. They had probably captured him canvassing the street for injuries. He had reassured his father, though, and fairly soon decided that it would be best for Ian to sleep there that night. Getting him away from the broken glass alone was a good idea. He had arranged for his father to call when he got closer to Baker Street (which would be a nightmare, John was sure), and then went back to work.

Once the professionals had arrived, John had returned to the flat to find Mrs Hudson sweeping at the glass in the front room while Ian picked up scattered puzzle pieces, fingers protected by a pair of latex gloves. Sherlock was still outside, examining the wreckage and debris scatter patterns. John had nodded at them, offering his son a smile as he continued up the stairs to pack him a bag. 

He had been grateful that Ian’s room was in the back of the building. Maybe he would sleep there tonight and deal with cleaning his own in the morning, he thought. His own bed hadn’t been under one of the windows, but the amount of broken glass ground into the carpeting was discouraging.

When he had told Ian he would be spending the night with his grandfather, though, Ian had gotten upset. John had been gratified he’d wanted to stay with him so badly and, finally, had allowed Mrs Hudson to convince him to go, too. (“You need to be with your son, John. We’re fine. The mess will still be here in the morning.”)

So here it was, the next morning, and John had just returned to find Mycroft sitting in the midst of the destruction of their living room, engaged in a staring contest with Sherlock. 

“Where’s Ian?”

“My father is taking him over to David’s to spend time with his cousins. I figured I’d be busy cleaning this morning, and there’s too much for him to hurt himself on until it’s done.”

Mycroft just sniffed at this, eyebrows raised. He persisted in treating Ian as something with an unpleasant smell—still holding a grudge for his people’s poor background check, was all John could think of. He just hoped the man would get over it soon or he was going to snap at him one of these days. He could sneer at John all he liked, but he wasn’t going to put up with that kind of treatment toward his son. 

He caught Sherlock watching him with a gleam in his eye (one that begged, ‘please do!’), but just shook his head briefly as he asked why Mycroft was there. 

“Can’t I check up on my brother? Though, I did have another reason for calling.”

John watched the two sniping at each other about a case Mycroft wanted worked on, but John stopped listening, looking instead at the destruction of their flat. Well, destruction might be too strong a word. Except for the windows, everything was still mostly intact, but there was glass and grit everywhere. They weren’t going to be walking around barefoot any time soon.

He took the folder from Mycroft before he left, with a glance at Sherlock sawed at his (thankfully unharmed) violin, but put it down before the man was even down the stairs, already making a plan for cleaning. 

Sherlock waved him off. “Mycroft is sending a team. Apparently he considers cleaning up after an explosion to be part of his brotherly duties.”

John just stared. Sherlock accepting a favour from his brother? “And you’re going to let him?”

A shrug. “It’s convenient. And glass shards can be insidious.”

“So can Mycroft,” said John, “Especially when you’re refusing to do him a favour in return.” He watched as Sherlock plucked at his violin a moment more, then, “Ah. You’re doing this for Ian.”

“Don’t be silly, John.” Sherlock looked affronted at the very notion. “He wasn’t the one in bare feet at the time of the explosion.”

John was considering his answer when Sherlock’s phone rang—Lestrade, calling them down to the Yard. And so he left the conversation drop … but he didn’t forget. 

 

#

 

The next couple days were a blur. Apparently a madman was playing games with Sherlock and using bombs as a means to capture his attention. 

John worried a bit that it was the bombs that Sherlock was concerned with, more than the people wearing them. Sherlock had never shown excessive amounts of compassion for the injured and needy, and now he was so wrapped up with the bomber—he was worried more about the puzzle than what he was doing.

And, well, John could understand that. He was a doctor, a surgeon, and understood that you had to focus on the problem at hand rather than worrying about the lives affected. It’s not like carving into a person to heal them wasn’t counterintuitive, but you couldn’t let the instinctive horror of what you were doing affect your actions. 

So, Sherlock’s focus on the person perpetuating the bomb attacks instead of the hapless victims? John could understand that.

It was the apparent _glee_ that worried him. He knew Sherlock revelled in solving puzzles, but this? This was more like a sick kind of flirting. When he solved the first case, Carl Powers’ murder, and discovered that he and the bomber had a shared history? That the bomber’s first murder had also been the first to pique Sherlock’s interest?

A worrying juxtaposition, that.

Add to that the fact that the Baker Street bomb could have injured Ian? 

Even more worrying.

Which was why Ian was with John’s father until this thing was over. He knew he and Sherlock lived dangerous lives, but this? This one felt too personal, too close, and it was better for Ian to be safe than for him to be at Baker Street. 

He tried to tell himself that this was not a failure as a parent. He was watching out for Ian’s safety, wasn’t he? That was more important than more father-son bonding, wasn’t it? He was making a point of talking with him when he could, at least. It concerned him a bit that Ian would feel abandoned, but the explosion across the street had made an impression—even if he believed it had been a gas explosion. And if he resented being kept away from the action.

Still, John wasn’t in the mood for Donovan’s snide complaints when they met at the next crime scene. “Still following the Freak, then? You should find a hobby, something with that kid of yours. Fishing, maybe?”

He looked at her with disfavour, reminding himself that he was the polite one. He had also been in the army, though, and verbal abuse didn’t faze him. “I’ve known you three months now, Donovan. It’s clear that you’re good at your job. You’re dedicated and work long hours, working toward a greater good—all very admirable. I was in the army, you know, so I understand about the need to serve and the satisfaction that comes with it.” She nodded, pleased at the compliment but also wary. “So, tell me, is there a reason that you choose to look down on people doing the _exact same thing_ without even the benefit of a salary?”

“I don’t,” she said, protesting. “It’s just … the Freak…”

John just shook his head, trying to explain this to her in a way she’d understand, anything to stave off some of the continual sniping between the two. “Yes, see? Right there. Sherlock is devoting his time offering a valuable service, donating his impressive deductive skills, just to help you catch criminals, and all you offer him in return is abuse. Why? I really want to know.”

“Well,” she faltered. “Look, I know he’s useful, and all, and I won’t deny he’s cracked cases sooner than we might have, but … look at him. He _enjoys_ it.”

John didn’t turn his head, but kept his eyes on her face. “Haven’t you heard of job satisfaction? Doesn’t it feel good when _you_ put the pieces together to solve a case?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“He likes to solve puzzles,” John said. “The more complicated the better. It’s true that he focuses more on the problems than on the personal impact, but that’s because he can’t afford the distraction, not because he doesn’t care.”

“Care?” she spat out, almost laughing. “Him?”

“Yes, him. Do you know what I did in the army?” She shook her head. “I was a surgeon—one of those people who cuts into wounded soldiers—occasionally without anaesthetic, if supplies were low. You can’t allow yourself to be distracted by knowing about the girlfriends back home or the ailing mother who sends monthly care-packages. You can’t think about how you had pints together just last week.”

“Is that what happened to you, then? Finally faced one too many people you knew and broke down? That would explain living with him.”

He stifled an urge to roll his eyes. She couldn’t possibly be this dense, could she? “No, Donovan. I got shot. You’re missing the point. While doing your job, you have to concentrate on the task at hand. It doesn’t mean you don’t _care_. Tell me, do you react to crime scenes the same way now as when you started? Or do you push part of the horror and pain to the back of your head so you can focus on catching the criminals?”

“Well, of course…”

“Do your lack of tears or gasps of shock mean you don’t care?”

“No, but…”

“So what on earth makes you think Sherlock is any less human than the rest of us?” John asked, honestly trying to explain it to her. “Maybe he’s just better at hiding it. Maybe he needs to block out _more_ of it out to be able to solve the crime? And … just maybe … it’s possible that your childish insults distract him? At the very least, they make _you_ look unprofessional—because while yes, I know, he gives as good as he gets, and he’s not an easy person—but, I’ve noticed that you’re always the one who starts it.” 

He looked over to Sherlock, just turning away from the grieving widow (?), wiping a tear from his face. “It’s something to think about. In the meantime, maybe it’s you who needs to find a hobby to divert some of this antagonism. I hear knitting is relaxing and very ‘in’ right now. Good day, Donovan.”

John strode away, joining Sherlock as they climbed up the hill. “What was that all about?”

“Just chatting with Donovan about hobbies.”

Sherlock nodded, comprehension on his face. “What did she suggest? Model trains? Stamp collecting?”

“Fishing, actually,” John told him. “Just before I told her she needed to find a better one than Sherlock-baiting. I suggested knitting.”

He tried not to smile at the look of gratified surprise on Sherlock’s face as they headed to Janus Cars.

 

#

 

If John had had any lingering doubts about Sherlock’s lack of caring, they were settled when he saw his face as the old woman was blown up while they talked. 

Or at least, he thought the question had been answered until later when Sherlock sat in front of the telly and, instead of commenting on the lives lost, complained that he had technically solved the case. As if the problem here were that his opponent (the serial-killer bomber kidnapping people off the street to wrap in Semtex) had cheated, when the problem as obviously that innocent people had been killed simply for living in the wrong block of flats. 

As much as John knew that the job required controlling your emotions, this still pushed him over the too-near edge.

“You’re angry with me.”

Oh, you think? John rounded on him, struggling to keep his temper. “Good deduction, that. Innocent people have died. Don’t you care about that at all?”

“Would caring about them save them? Then I will continue not to make that mistake,” Sherlock said, and even though it was much the same as John had said to Donovan, there was something about the tone of that baritone voice that suddenly made John sympathize with the aggravating woman. No matter how John might tell himself that Sherlock hid his feelings, right then he wanted nothing so much as to slap that smugly superior expression off his face.

Luckily for both of them, the pink phone rang just then, and Sherlock was immediately back in the game, goading John into helping. (“Not much cop, this caring lark.”) And that was just unfair, thought John, as he flipped through the paper. Just because he was angry with Sherlock didn’t mean he wouldn’t help, didn’t care. Wasn’t that the point?

He just wished Sherlock wasn’t enjoying this quite so much. He could only be glad Ian wasn’t here to see it.

 

#

 

John just didn’t understand, thought Sherlock. It was bad those people had died, of course, but hadn’t he done everything he could to save them? Yes, he’d made the old woman wait while he explored other avenues, but that had been necessary. Making full use of the time the bomber had given him had been important. It had given him a chance to get a leg up on him, to gain ground. Surely John could understand that?

It wasn’t his fault the woman had said too much. Hadn’t he tried to stop her? Would he have let that block of flats be blown up if he could have prevented it? John was just letting his emotions affect his judgement.

It was probably best for him to work them out here, though, Sherlock thought. He tried not to admit that John’s words had stung. John knew he cared, didn’t he? He understood the need not to let that interfere with the Work. He was a doctor, he had to. 

But then, he reminded himself, John was a doctor recently returned from a warzone with PTSD and a deep-seated need to protect people. That number of innocent deaths—by a bomb, nonetheless—would bother him, especially since they had been (theoretically) preventable. 

It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault they had happened, though. He’d solved the puzzle with time to spare. He’d tried to stop the elderly woman from telling him too much. Didn’t John realize?

Before their disagreement could escalate beyond John’s need to blow off steam, the fourth pip came through, and they were off. 

Curiously, there were no phone calls this time. It was unfortunate, not knowing what the time frame was, but Sherlock had to believe that the bomber would let him know eventually. Meanwhile, he didn’t waste time as he plunged into the case with anticipation. The bomber’s morals might be non-existent, but his puzzles were correspondingly intriguing.

Without knowing the time constraints, Sherlock used all his resources for this one, including the Homeless Network—his best bet at finding the Golem, he thought. He sent John to see the victim’s flat while he checked out the museum, having an entirely satisfying exchange with the curator. 

Then there was the chase through the tunnels, the fight at the planetarium, and it was _invigorating_. 

What it wasn’t, though, was informative. And so he found himself in front of the fake Vermeer armed with nothing other than his knowledge that it was fake but he didn’t know how the security guard had figured it out. 

Which was when the phone rang.

He answered it. “It’s a fake. I’ve solved it. The reason doesn’t matter.” He was met with (infuriating) silence on the other end. “Just give me some time. Can you do that?”

There was a long pause, and then a shaky voice began, “Ten…. Nine….”

“Oh, Christ,” Lestrade said, stricken. “It’s a kid.”

But John sounded even more shattered as he said, “It’s _Ian_.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Please don’t hate me.
> 
> But, um, yeah, there was a reason I moved The Great Game to summer time while he’s off school … I mean, we never DO find out who the Pip #4 kid was, do we?


	7. Chapter 7

John didn’t think he had ever felt so helpless in his life.

He had watched his mother die of cancer, knowing there was nothing he could do to help.

He had been thousands of miles away when Mary died, leaving their newborn son practically orphaned, while he could do nothing. 

He had had countless soldiers and patients die despite his best efforts.

But this? 

As Lestrade reached over to grip his shoulder, John thought he had never experienced anything like this before. This transcended helplessness. Those other times? They’d barely been rehearsal for this totally encompassing knowledge that his son was about to die and there was absolutely no thing, no action, no thought, prayer, cry for help he could do that would be able to change a bloody thing.

The only thing he could do was stare at Sherlock and hope his friend was as brilliant as he thought he was. 

He saw the realization that the child on the line was Ian spread, numbing, across Sherlock’s face. Then he almost _saw_ the effort with which he pushed that aside, rolled it into a box with a lid and a lock to cram out of the way in the back of a closet in his mind palace where it wouldn’t interfere as he forced his brain into overdrive, staring at the painting as he ran through every possible way to spot a forgery he knew of.

God, please, prayed John, unable to breathe. He watched Sherlock as he discarded option after option, and then the blessed, oh-so-familiar look of revelation as he thrust the phone, the fragile link with Ian, into John’s hands as he pulled out his own phone. He pulled up the browser and—thank all the gods and saints and angels and whatever else there was in a heaven John wasn’t entirely sure he even believed in—he had a strong enough signal that he found the information quickly. 

Even as Sherlock muttered about his own brilliance, the countdown continued (Christ, Ian sounded terrified), and John found himself clutching at Lestrade’s hand like a bleeding damsel in distress until Sherlock grabbed the phone back and said, “The Van Buren Supernova.”

An endless silence—one that would echo in his ears for the rest of his life as he prayed the phone wouldn’t go suddenly, fatally dead—and then Ian’s voice came through the phone. “Please, Sherlock, come get me.”

John felt his knees go numb and he stumbled, grateful for Lestrade’s strong grip on his arm. He didn’t know what was on his own face, but Sherlock’s looked paler than usual as he wordlessly handed John the phone. 

John got his legs under him and took a deep breath. They weren’t out of this yet, he reminded himself. The bomber had detonated the last bomb just as they all thought they were safe. His son was still wearing a bomb. “Ian? It’s Dad. Where are you?”

 

#

 

Sherlock followed as John charged into the toy store, musing on Sentiment. 

Yes, knowing the bomber’s victim had made this pip, this puzzle different. Recalling the stricken look on John’s face when he heard Ian’s voice … he hoped never to see John look that shattered, that distraught ever again. 

It had, in fact, become instantly very devastatingly personal.

This was a child that lived in his flat, a child he saw eating breakfast, wearing his pyjamas before bed. He had spent time with this boy, was friends with his father. 

He had no idea what his own face had looked like.

The choice of victim in this case was far from random. It was as if the bomber had been party to the conversations he and John had had about caring. Had he listened in to Sherlock telling John that caring wouldn’t help him save the victims, he couldn’t have picked a better hostage. 

In fact, Sherlock dreaded what he was going to happen next. John Watson was not a man to frighten easily, but today? He had been terrified, and rightfully so. Suddenly, it wasn’t possible for Sherlock to entirely separate the victims from the crime. They had families who would have looked just as distraught, just as hopeless. What if he had failed John? What if Ian had exploded into pink mist and it had been because he, Sherlock Holmes, had failed to save him?

He could see them ahead, though. The bomb squad had gotten here before them—how, he wasn’t quite sure, considering the speed Lestrade had made getting here. Ian was free of explosives, though, and held tightly in John’s arms as he knelt before his son, hugging as if he would never let go.

It was more untrammelled emotion than Sherlock was normally comfortable with, but he found he couldn’t look away. 

Ian’s face was tear-streaked as he clung to his father for a long moment until John pulled back a bit. “Are you okay? Hurt? Anything?” Sherlock marvelled at the tone—a doctor’s concern, rather than a father’s panic.

“I’m okay,” Ian said, swallowing. “He didn’t hurt me.” 

John was running his hands over him, examining him with his eyes, but except for a bruise on Ian’s wrist, he looked unharmed. Well, physically unharmed. 

“Were you scared?” John asked calmly, firmly in diagnostic mode.

Ian nodded. “Were you?”

“Terrified. Can you imagine what your grandfather would do if I let anything happen to you?”

“Or great-grandfather.”

“Oh, lord, don’t even go there,” said John, pushing himself to his feet, but not letting go of Ian’s hand. “Nobody would be safe.”

Sherlock approached warily, bracing himself for the recriminations. Justified ones, he admitted. Ian would not have been in danger if the bomber hadn’t started this game—and if Sherlock hadn’t played along. 

He was surprised, though, when Ian pulled away from his father to fling himself at Sherlock. “Thank you!”

“What?” Sherlock wasn’t used to being caught off-guard like this. He looked at John, confused, only to see gratitude on his flatmate’s face as well. “I…”

“You saved me,” Ian told him earnestly, looking up, and Sherlock couldn’t help but rest his hand on the boy’s mussed blond hair. “When he told me to start counting … I was so scared. But you figured it out just in time.”

Sherlock winced at the reminder of how close it had come, but there was no accusation in the child’s face. “I … I’m glad you’re all right.”

Glad? A wholly insufficient word, he thought.

Looking down at the flushed but happy face, though, he couldn’t think of a better one.

 

#

 

John sat in the conference room, doing his best not to clutch at his son. He wondered if this was normal for parents, this raging desire to keep all and any dangers as far away as possible. He’d always known he had strong protective instincts (an advantage for an army doctor), but this? He’d never felt this strongly, like he’d bite off the head of anyone who even looked at Ian sideways.

Certainly, Sherlock had been afraid of just that. The look on the poor man’s face as he’d approached them at the crime scene—he’d looked terrified that John was going to punch him at the very least for having gotten them into this.

John was no fool, though. He might have objected to Sherlock’s barely-hidden delight in the challenge the bomber had provided, but he had never forgotten that Sherlock hadn’t asked for this. It wasn’t his fault a serial-killer was playing this weird, flirting game with him. It made sense, too, that he would up the ante at some point, and snatching Ian … well, that followed a horrible kind of logic. Even a self-diagnosed high-functioning sociopath could reasonably be expected to have some fellow-feeling for a child he lived with.

No, from a purely tactical standpoint, John could acknowledge a well-played move.

It was the fact that his _son_ had been drafted into being a pawn that made his blood boil.

But John Watson didn’t let his temper get the better of him, as a rule, and he wasn’t going to start in front of his already traumatized son. So, he sat here with his son in his lap, waiting for a detective to come and take Ian’s statement. Sherlock and Lestrade had gone off to question Ms Wenceslas, and John wondered who would be talking to them.

He stifled a groan when the door opened and Sally Donovan walked in. She’s competent at her job, he reminded himself. She was physically unintimidating for a child and would surely be on her best behaviour in front of his son. And it’s not like Sherlock was in the room, so … hopefully this would go well.

She was carrying several bottles of juice along with her pad and pen, and handed them around with a smile. “You must be thirsty. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Detective Donovan, but you can call me Sally, if you like.”

Ian just nodded and reached for the orange juice as John gave her an approving nod as he opened his own. The sugar and electrolytes were just what his son needed—well, short of having some kind of retcon in the drink like they had on Torchwood to make him forget the entire ordeal. That would really be perfect. In the real world, though, he was grateful for some basic nutrients and hydration getting into his son’s system.

“So, Ian, can you tell me what happened?” Sally asked, voice gentle.

“I was at Uncle David’s,” Ian said.

“That’s my cousin David Brandon,” John said. “He’s got daughters about Ian’s age who were nice enough to offer to entertain him the last few days. He’s been staying with my father since the gas leak exploded on Baker Street.”

Sally nodded, acknowledging the hint. “Right. You were at Baker Street when the explosion happened? But you weren’t hurt?”

Ian shook his head. “No, but there was glass everywhere and Dad said I’d be safer at Grandpa’s, and then he and Sherlock have been so busy, they asked if I’d mind staying there a few days.”

“So, you were at your Uncle David’s today. When did you leave?”

“When Hannah picked me up,” Ian said, taking a sip of his juice.

John stiffened and looked down at his son. “Hannah?”

A nod. “She said you’d called and told her to come pick me up, that we were going to have lunch.”

John could almost feel his blood slowing to a crawl as his heart clenched and froze. He could feel his face pale as he met Sally’s eyes and gave his head a tiny shake. She just nodded calmly and spoke to Ian. “So, where did she take you for lunch?”

“We didn’t … she said it would be fun to walk, so we did. She wasn’t as much fun as usual, though. She kept checking her phone and seemed nervous or something. I figured it was because she’d gotten yelled at last time she looked after me. I’m sorry. I forgot she was still in trouble.” He glanced up and John smoothed his hand over his hair, reminding himself to breathe. “Anyway, when we walked past the toy shop, she said we still had time, and why not go in? She said she wanted to buy me something to apologize.”

A bomb vest, thought John as he tried to swallow with a suddenly arid mouth. Just what every child needs.

“What happened then?” asked Sally. “You went into the toy shop….”

“I wanted to go look at the cars, but she said there was something special she wanted to show me and so we got on the escalator…” Ian took another sip of his juice. “We went up to the second floor and she took me back past the dolls, and I said they were boring, and could we go back down, but she … by then, she had her hand around my wrist and was _dragging_ me…”

Ian’s voice creaked to a halt and it was about killing John, that there was nothing he could do but listen. He knew enough about PTSD, though, to know that talking about it was the best thing Ian could do right now, so he just tightened his arms a bit as he calmly said, “Okay. It’s okay. Nobody really likes dolls, anyway. Even girls just pretend. Everybody knows trucks are _much_ cooler.”

He felt Ian relax just a bit and, while he didn’t giggle, the tension in his face eased. John looked across at Sally who gave a tiny smile. “Baby dolls are the worst,” she agreed. “So, why did she bring you up there?”

Ian swallowed more juice, stalling now, but John and Sally waited until he said, “That’s where _he_ was.”

“He?”

“The man with the … I didn’t know at first. He was funny and was making jokes. I thought he worked there, except …”

“Except?”

“He wasn’t dressed like he worked in a shop. He was dressed like … like Sherlock. Or Grandpa.”

“Wearing a suit?”

Ian nodded. “A nice one. And then he made me put on the … the vest. And he told me…” 

He stopped again, breathing heavily, and it was hard, so hard, to sit there waiting patiently for him to continue when John wanted nothing more than to storm out of the room and find Hannah and ask her what the hell she was doing. Finally, though, Ian continued. “He told me that I had to sit right there and not move, because if I did, I would explode just like the building across from us did. He put something on my ear so he could talk to me and gave me a phone with one number and told me if I called anyone else or called before he told me, that he would make me blow up and take the shop with me.”

John closed his eyes. He had known, but … hearing it from his _son_ was … worse. Much worse. 

He wasn’t expecting Ian to continue, though, so he was surprised when he said, “And then, after he blew up the shop, he would shoot Daddy again.”

“What?”

Appalled, John looked down at his son, who’d been so brave, but was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks. “And I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t … You were already hurt in the army, and I don’t want anything else … not when we’re finally … I couldn’t.”

Without even thinking, John pulled Ian in and bent his head over his son’s, murmuring soothing sounds, nonsense words, anything to counteract the heaving sobs. What kind of madman puts this kind of responsibility on the shoulders of a nine-year old? Wasn’t it bad enough that Ian had known he might die, but to burden him with the lives of every other person in the building? And his father’s?

God, he wanted to strangle the man who had done this. 

Hands still busy soothing, he looked up and met Donovan’s eyes. Like usual, they were hard and angry, but this time it wasn’t directed at him or Sherlock. This time their anger was shared and directed at the same source. 

Whoever had done this was going to pay.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Ian is okay. Would I let anything happen to him? It’s not like you didn’t know Sherlock would solve it in time… but, hey. I figured I'd let you out of your misery early.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock sat in the cold, empty living room of 221B Baker Street and tried not to think about how lonely it felt.

He had spent most of his life on his own, after all. He had never needed other children, other people around to entertain him. They were usually dull and boring and never worth the effort of being polite. He had always found his own company the most rewarding.

Until John. It was impossible to explain the sea-change John’s entry into his life had caused. He had had no idea what a difference a sympathetic ear could make. In fact, John was an extraordinary listener, but his real skill was as a sounding board. He wasn’t as fast as Sherlock, but he understood the concept of deduction in a way the idiots at Scotland Yard could only hope to match. At the very least, he accepted that Sherlock not only looked at the world in more detail than most (any) other people, but that what he saw was valid. And interesting. 

Add to that a quirky sense of humour and an easy-going nature (despite complaints about certain extremes of behaviour and random body parts in the flat), and John Watson was altogether remarkable.

He just hoped that his case wouldn’t drive him away.

Sherlock had been relieved to see that neither Ian nor John seemed to blame him for Ian’s ordeal, but there was no denying he had nearly died. And Sherlock believed that no father would willingly leave his son in a position where he would be put in danger. 

John might not want to move, but he might feel obliged, to keep Ian safe.

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could handle that.

The flat was empty enough tonight, he wasn’t sure he could go back to doing this all the time.

Tonight, though. Well, of course John was with Ian. If they had been more than ten feet apart since the toy shop, Sherlock would be surprised. Neither of them was exactly clingy, but both of them were very definitely keeping in each other’s orbit. Sherlock had insisted they stay with John’s father, arguing that the security would do Ian good.

That was to get them out of the flat, though, because, clearly, it was time to bring this to an end. 

And so he opened his computer and, with a few keystrokes, made his move.

 

#

 

John was standing in the doorway of Ian’s room—the room Jonathan had put aside for his grandson, anyway—and just watched his son breathing as the moonlight spread across the bed.

“How is he?”

He didn’t turn his head, but just nodded in his son’s direction. “He seems fine, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were nightmares tonight. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

His father nodded, face grave in the dim light. “And you still don’t know who the madman was?”

“Sherlock’s working on it, but I haven’t heard anything since we left the Yard. They got a name from the curator, but it didn’t help.”

“No?”

“We knew it already. It’s just an alias for some kind of criminal mastermind—which, yes, you don’t have to say it. It sounds like a bad Agatha Christie. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“And he’s playing a game with your flatmate … and putting Ian at risk.”

The guilt in John’s stomach threatened to rise up to choke him. He had known his lifestyle could be dangerous, but he had never expected _this_. “Apparently so,” he finally choked out. “Which makes it all the more important to catch him so I can bring Ian home again.”

“You’re sure about this, John? Having Ian live with you when you’re doing such dangerous work?”

John sighed. “I’ve always done dangerous work, Father. The difference is that now I’m doing it in London. But I’ve finally got the chance to have Ian with me … I don’t know what I would have done if Harry and Clara hadn’t … if Harry had stayed on the wagon. If I would have taken him from them. But things are what they are. He’s my son and he needs me. It will be safe enough once we catch the bomber. It’s not like we run into psychotic madmen every day. Believe me, this is a rarity. I hope they find Hannah, though—I have some questions for that girl.”

His phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket and found a text.

— _Fifth pip. Can you come? SH_

— _Change your mind? You told me I should stay here with Ian to keep him safe._

— _Catching Moriarty will keep him safe. I need you. SH_

That was a fair point, John thought, staring back at his son, torn. He wanted to be here if Ian needed him, but Sherlock did, too—and it was true, if they caught Moriarty, it would make his son that much safer. Not to mention that Ian wasn’t alone. He had his grandfather right here, but Sherlock? He would be just stupid enough to go after a criminal mastermind on his own. 

John looked across the room, thinking how small and helpless his son looked, asleep in the moonlight. He felt like he’d made so many bad decisions as a father. Was leaving him now really the right choice?

And yet … he desperately wanted to catch the man who did this. Nobody touched his son, much less wrapped him in a bomb.

His indecision must have shown on his face. His father reached over to tilt the phone enough to read the text exchanges and then said, “You should go. I’ll be here if Ian needs me. You go help catch the man who did this to him.”

“Really?”

“Yes, go on. We’ll be here when you get back. Call me when you’ve caught the bastard.”

 

#

 

John double-checked the address on his phone. An empty pool? Why would Sherlock want him there? Though—the first pip. The boy who’d drowned. There was a symmetry there that would probably appeal to his flatmate.

He was just hesitating, wondering where to go, when another text rang in.

— _Around back. Staff entrance._

All right, then, thought John, wondering at the subterfuge. Where was Sherlock, anyway? He had a bad feeling about this and was starting to wish he’d brought his gun. He wished he knew what kind of situation he was walking into. 

He was just skirting a pile of trash in the alley when his phone chimed again. This time, it was a text from his father, asking if he’d seen Sherlock’s blog? He pressed the link and read Sherlock’s invitation to meet—with Mycroft’s missile plans—at midnight. Well, that explained why he was here, he thought. At least Sherlock wasn’t going into this without backup for a change, though now he really wished he had his gun.

Still, switching his phone to vibrate, he walked a little more confidently, a little more alertly now that he knew why he was here. He wouldn’t put it past Moriarty to show up early, and if he were here to back Sherlock up, he needed to be on his best game. 

Looking carefully up and down the alley, he pulled the Staff door open and went inside.

 

#

 

Sherlock was just heading for the door when he received the text message. 

— _Good luck tonight catching the man who hurt Ian._

The incoming number said Jonathan Brandon and for a moment it threw him. How had John known? Then he realized the text was from John’s father, and even as he typed a reply, he felt his stomach clench with something that might have been mistaken for nerves in another person.

— _How did you know? SH_

There, that was sufficiently vague, he thought.

— _Saw your website. I looked after John received your text. Don’t tell him I said anything. He’ll think I’m interfering._

Sherlock stared at his phone as his stomach began tearing at its lining.

He hadn’t sent John any texts.

— _Isn’t he there yet? He must have left at least half an hour ago._

John had left 30 minutes ago? 

But that would mean …

He practically flung himself out the door and down the steps to flag a taxi. 

 

#

 

It was dark, but John could see the light on at the end of the corridor—the main pool room, no doubt. He thought about looking for a light switch but could see the clear floor gleaming in the dark hallway. Nothing to trip over, and if someone came through the door, he’d see their silhouette, and in the meantime, he didn’t want to give his position away.

Nevertheless, he felt as if his ears were stretched to their fullest extent as he walked quietly up the hall, hands clenching and unclenching as he longed for his gun.

Where was Sherlock? He had expected him by the door, but… John’s hair was prickling at his neck now. Something about this whole situation was wrong. It didn’t make sense, anyway. Sherlock knew John wanted (needed) to be with Ian—had even told him to—so why would he have voluntarily arranged a meeting with Moriarty for tonight? Why not wait until tomorrow? 

Had he even gotten the clue for the fifth pip? 

John stopped walking, and with a glance backward toward the door he’d come in, engulfed in darkness now, he pulled out his phone to send Sherlock a text.

Only to hear a voice saying, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dr Watson,” just as the cool metal of a gun pressed itself to the back of his neck.

John froze, hands extended away from his body. He didn’t flinch as a shadow came from the left to take his phone and then pat him down, looking for weapons. He was too busy cursing himself for his utter _stupidity_ in walking right into this trap. Because of course it was a trap. How had he not seen that? Sherlock was right, he was an idiot—an idiot who’d abandoned his child mere hours after he’d been strapped into a bomb to … oh, Christ. 

The bomb. 

The fifth pip.

_He_ was the fifth pip.

He really was an idiot.

The man behind him put one hand on his shoulder and propelled him forward, gun unwavering at the base of his skull. All John could do was walk forward. Even if the man weren’t as professional as he suspected so that John could get away without being shot, there was no point overpowering him without knowing how many others were here, lurking in the dark. With infrared goggles, no doubt, so that they could see him easily while he was all but blind. 

And then even blinder as, just before they reached the lit hallway, a black bag was pulled over his head and he was steered even faster than before down to the left, then a sharp right into a space that felt smaller, didn’t echo as much. He was spun then, like a player in a vicious game of blind man’s bluff and then thrust down into some kind of office chair that almost rotated out from under him as he fought for his balance. Not that it mattered because, still dizzy, he was being tied to the chair, which was then spun several more times for good measure.

For a moment, he was almost grateful for the ropes holding him in place, even as the analytical part of his brain lauded his abductors on a novel way of keeping a captive literally off balance without causing any actual harm. 

He hoped dizziness would be the worst problem he would face tonight.

John had only a moment to consider the ramifications of that before the bag was pulled from his head, with one more good, vigorous spin to the chair for good measure. The room flashed by once, twice, and then the chair was stopped abruptly, rocking him in his seat as he tried to focus on the man standing in front of him.

“So nice of you to join us, Dr Watson.”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, though the form in front of him didn’t ring any bells. The suit was elegant, and the smirk possibly even better than the ones he’d seen on Mycroft’s face. He remembered Ian’s description of the man who had strapped him into a bomb, though, and had no doubt who he was facing.

Catching his breath, John said, “I wasn’t given much choice, Mr Moriarty.”

“Of course you were!” Moriarty said, gleeful. “You walked in of your own free will. All I had to do was send you a text … it’s amazing what you’ll do if someone signs the initials S.H.”

Sadly, thought John, that was all too true. “In this case, though,” he said, bluffing, “I wanted to talk to you about how you’re going to stay away from my son.”

“Oh, and isn’t he a dear, wee lad,” Moriarty said, pulling his face into an expression of exaggerated adoration. “You must be so proud of him. He was so very well behaved today.”

John just stared at the man who had wrapped his son in a _bomb_ and tried to maintain his composure even as his blood pressure rose. “I’ll be sure to tell him so. It’s important to reward good behaviour, don’t you think?”

“True, that’s very true,” Moriarty said, nodding his head and looking altogether too happy with himself.

“Of course,” added John, “As his father, I would appreciate if you would clear future play-dates with me first. It’s hard to teach him about the importance of manners if we adults don’t follow through, don’t you think?”

Now the man pouted. “And we had such fun together. But, I suppose … if you survive the night.”

“Why do you care about my son, anyway?” asked John, trying not to think of the implications of that last statement. “I thought you were playing with Sherlock.”

“Ah, but your darling son _lives_ with Sherlock now, doesn’t he? Even more of a pet than you are, sitting adoringly, hanging on his every word. He would miss that, don’t you think?”

John thought of how patiently Sherlock had explained his latest experiment to Ian, how he had actually restricted his violin playing in the wee hours of the morning. Even if he didn’t make it down to 221C, he at least played quiet and melodic pieces so as not to disturb the boy’s sleep. John thought about the look of relief—quickly shuttered away but real for all that—that had been on Sherlock’s face this afternoon when he’d solved Moriarty’s puzzle. That had not been satisfaction at answering a puzzle; that had been real relief.

Slowly he nodded. “Sherlock does enjoy an audience. I’m guessing that’s something you have in common?”

“Oh, no,” said Moriarty, though his expression said otherwise. “I prefer to work behind the scenes. Very few people ever see my face or hear my name.”

An ominous thought, John thought as he said, “I’m honoured … though I’m sure it’s for Sherlock’s sake, not mine.”

“Well, it _was_. When I first saw you, I dismissed you as unimportant, but then you brought a child to the flat, and that made you more interesting. People tend to act so irrational around children; it added a nice counterpoint. But I admit, I still didn’t pay much attention to you then … _before_ I started the game. But then the first explosion happened and you sent dear little Ian out of harm’s way, and naturally we followed.”

Oh God, thought John. What had he done?

“You can imagine my surprise when you went to Viscount Jonathan Brandon’s home, and of course I did a little digging, only to find out your son’s name was Brandon.” Moriarty moved closer, hands casually thrust into his pockets. “And when I looked into the Viscount’s family, do you know what I found?”

“What?” John asked with his suddenly dry throat.

“That he had a son named John Hamish Watson Brandon, just exactly your age—the next in line for an _Earldom_. Well! It was like Christmas. I don’t often get to play with viscounts outside a few, well, we’ll call them business deals and some rather profitable games.” He leaned forward, face alight, “You should be honoured, Dr _Brandon_. I expanded the game just for you.”

John didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure he could even get any words out past the Registan Desert that had formed in his mouth, drier than Afghanistan, barren of words. 

Moriarty watched him expectantly for several moments and then, pouted a bit as he reached forward to pat John’s cheek. “That’s okay, Dr Brandon. I can tell you’re speechless at the attention. It’s right that you be flattered.”

He looked past him and then with a small nod, ostentatiously looked at his watch. 

“Well! Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Realistically, once Ian had been used as pip #4, Moriarty had lost the chance to try to fool Sherlock into thinking John was Moriarty, so I have no qualms about letting Jonathan give Sherlock a heads up, however inadvertently. The trick this time around was getting John away from Ian so he could be the fifth pip … because you did know John was going to be the fifth pip, right?


	9. Chapter 9

John was just staring at Moriarty, thinking about all the reasons he was _not_ going to let the man wrap him up in his own personal IED, when he heard his phone vibrate.

Moriarty’s eyebrows rose. “It appears someone is trying to reach you, doctor. I wonder if it’s your adorable son, woken with a nightmare, perhaps, and wondering where Daddy is? Really, you know, abandoning him after such an ordeal … you’re not shooting for Father of the Year, are you?”

He held out his hand and one of the guards peeled away from the wall to hand him John’s phone. “Aww,” he said, “Sherlock wants you to know that you need milk. Does he expect you to leave your son’s bedside to do the shopping? It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

John kept his face neutral as he said, “No more than asking me to hunt a serial bomber—but then, Sherlock’s sense of personal boundaries isn’t always the best.”

Moriarty nodded, and then asked, “Would you like me to send him an answer? It’s no trouble.”

“I got milk yesterday, go to the shops yourself, I’m busy?” John suggested, trying to put the just right amount of exasperation into his voice. “As you say, he knows I’m supposed to be home with Ian. Even Sherlock isn’t so unreasonable as … all right, maybe he is, but I would have thought you would have sent him your fifth clue by now, wouldn’t you?”

“I needed my pip first, doctor,” said Moriarty, and now all trace of amusement was gone from his face.

“You should really talk to Gladys Knight then,” said John, but obviously the time for banter was past because Moriarty didn’t respond. 

Instead, he gestured to one of his men. “I need you to put this vest on, Dr Brandon. I believe you’ll find it quite stylish and comfortable, though I admit the Semtex does mess a bit with the drape of the fabric.”

John just shook his head, ignoring the man untying the ropes behind him. “No. And the name’s Watson.” 

“I’m afraid you have no choice, so … _Put. It. On._ ” And now all signs of humour or humanity had been stripped from Moriarty’s face, expressionless and cold in the flickering fluorescent lights. 

“Why should I make it easy for you?”

Moriarty laughed, though there was no warmth to it. “Do you think you could make it _hard?_ My men out-number you, are bigger and better trained than you, and, oh yes, are holding several guns on you. Believe me, we could force you into a ballgown if we so desired. The question you need to ask yourself is whether you want to face the rest of the evening with a concussion and an assortment of broken bones? Don’t you think that will make it harder to take care of wee Ian? Not to mention …” 

He pulled his own phone from his pocket and began scrolling through photos, showing them to John. “This is your father’s house, as you know, of course. Here’s your sister’s. Your grandfather’s. Here’s your father out in his yard with your adorable son. Your grandfather out for a drive. And, of course, we all know that terrible things can happen to patients in rehab, don’t we? How is your sister doing, anyway?” He smirked again, but this time it was almost real, because he was watching the horror on John’s face with something akin to glee. “Your decision is simple, Doctor _Brandon_. Put on the vest, do as I say, and if you’re lucky, you might just survive the night to see your darling son again.”

He leaned forward again, eyes blazing with threat. “Or make me force you … and you won’t like the other leverage I choose to employ.”

John swallowed. “How do I know you’ll leave them alone if I do?”

“You don’t … but I can guarantee that if you don’t willingly assist, I will tear their hearts out and force you to eat them. Don’t think I won’t.”

Numb, John nodded. “I believe you,” was all he said, but he stood up and held his arms out, allowing the minions to drape the explosive-laden vest over his shoulders before covering it with a huge, down-filled parka that would have been absurd in the middle of the winter but which was a different, sweltering kind of ridiculous at a swimming pool in July.

At Moriarty’s nod, he slumped back down to the chair, and wordlessly inserted the Bluetooth earpiece placed in his hand.

“I’m so glad you decided to play, doctor,” he said, with another glance at his watch, “And in good time, too. Showtime will be in fifteen minutes, so long as our star is on time.” He was holding John’s phone again. “What was it you wanted me to say? Got milk yesterday, get it yourself, I’m busy? Now, these are the little details even the best surveillance can miss. Tell me, why is it you’re out of milk so often?”

John just shook his head, too weary, too defeated to banter. “I have no idea. I buy it, and it disappears. He could be experimenting with it, bathing with it, or pouring it down the drain for all I know. The only thing I’m reasonably sure about is that he’s not drinking it. No matter what I do, we’re perpetually short on milk and he can never be bothered to buy it himself. Of course, it’s more of an issue now that Ian lives with us.”

“Tsk, tsk,” sympathized Moriarty, tapping at John’s keyboard. Getting his way clearly did good things for his mood. He sent the text and then tossed the phone on the desk as he came forward to loom over John. “There you go. Now, do I need to go over the rules?”

John shook his head again, not looking up. “Not unless you want to. Don’t say or do anything unless you tell me. _Only_ say or do what you tell me. Otherwise everything will go boom.”

Moriarty beamed at him. “Good boy,” he said as he left. 

John didn’t lift his eyes from the floor.

 

#

 

Sherlock’s text alert chimed and, he tried not to feel too hopeful as he looked … but, no. Of course.

— _I got milk yesterday, get it yourself. I’m a little tied up here._

He felt a chill work its way down his spine. John had already been captured, then.

He stared at nothing for a moment, remembering the day they had worked out a series of passwords and phrases for situations that might arise. Some were deliberately nonsensical (“Vatican cameos” for “Hit the dirt” for example)—things that would never come up in regular conversation but that were fairly obvious code phrases.

Others were subtler—meant to be used without raising suspicion. There was a reason they were perpetually short on and squabbling publically about milk. His original text saying they were out of milk was meant to warn John that he was heading into danger, but John’s response … that he already had gotten milk? He was either in Moriarty’s clutches already or expected to be imminently.

John telling him to buy his own milk was equivalent to saying ‘save yourself.’

Naturally, Sherlock would do no such thing, though it didn’t surprise him that John would try. His protectiveness was one of the hallmarks of his character. He would willingly sacrifice himself if he could save someone else.

Still, knowing John was there and was the fifth pip, would alter Sherlock’s plans a bit. He couldn’t leave John to face that alone. Nor did he expect this final puzzle to be anything like the others. There had been no clues given, no time frame. For that matter, he hadn’t received a response to his invitation for the meeting, but Sherlock had no doubt Moriarty would respond. Hadn’t that been the point of this entire game? To catch each other’s attention? Surely the denouement would involve a face-to-face meeting. If Moriarty had simply wanted to blow him up, he could have easily done that at any time.

No, Moriarty would be there, with John as his hostage. Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was meant to affect him by showing his friend in danger, or if it was just meant to show how easily Moriarty could insinuate himself into the details of Sherlock’s life. Either way, having John wrapped in a bomb would be his showpiece—the piece de resistance of the entire duel.

How had Moriarty gotten John away from Ian, Sherlock wondered? For that matter … his phone was in his hands and he was typing a text before he’d even finished the thought. Without knowing the scope of the game Moriarty was playing, it was hard to predict his behaviour, but he had already attacked John’s family today (twice, technically, considering John’s current predicament). He might be playing with Sherlock, but he was using John’s family as pawns … and considering his lineage, that was something he expected Mycroft would be interested in. And, as little as he liked owing Mycroft for anything, John would never forgive him if Sherlock let his focus on John and Moriarty distract him from protecting those John held dear.

Because, while Sherlock might not allow himself to be swayed by sentiment, that didn’t mean he didn’t understand its importance to other people. To John.

His phone rang, then. “ _Sherlock? What are you doing?_ ”

“Just trying to cover the possibilities, Mycroft. You’ve been following the situation, I assume?”

“ _Your bizarre flirting with a man with a penchant for dressing people in bombs? Of course I have. I also saw your ill-conceived invitation to the man—and now you’re worrying about the Brandon family?_ ”

Sherlock spoke quickly, eager to get this part finished as quickly as possible. “Somehow Moriarty has gotten hold of John to be the fifth pip, after having used his son for the fourth earlier today. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility he would attack John’s family tonight. Considering his family connections, I thought you might like to make yourself useful and make sure no more danger comes their way while I deal with Moriarty.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Mycroft said, “ _I hope you don’t think I wouldn’t have helped had John’s grandfather not been an Earl, Sherlock_.”

For a moment, Sherlock felt chastened, but he shrugged it off. “Will you help or not, Mycroft? I’m rather pressed for time.”

“ _Already done, Sherlock_ ,” came Mycroft’s smooth voice. “ _I don’t suppose there’s any hope of convincing you not to go to the pool?_ ”

Sherlock didn’t answer at first, but then said as he stared at the building across the street, “I’m already here. Good night, Mycroft,” and disconnected the call.

A gentleman didn’t ignore his appointments, after all.

 

#

 

John couldn’t help the way his legs sagged as Sherlock pulled the bomb from his shoulders, skimming it and the jacket as far down the length of the pool as he could. Adrenalin, after all, could only take him so far, and it had been too long a day.

“Sherlock,” he started, but the name caught in his throat as his knees gave out entirely and with a muttered oath, he staggered to the nearest wall and tried to remember how to breathe.

His daft flatmate came back in, then, to pace up and down, scratching the back of his head with his _gun_ for God’s sake, and if John had thought his legs would hold him, he would have torn the firearm out of the idiot’s hands before he accidentally did Moriarty’s work for him. 

Sherlock was stammering out one of the worst compliments John had ever received, but he didn’t care. They were miraculously in one piece, and that was more than he had ever thought was possible once they’d gotten caught up in this—once they’d met the secretive Moriarty in person. John didn’t imagine Moriarty would keep his identity so secret just to casually out himself to the two of them, not unless he planned on killing them. 

Because, oh yes, he definitely planned on killing them, thought John, just not today. For right now, that was enough. He was just allowing himself to believe that he was going to see Ian again, when … the sniper lights were back, and Moriarty was back. “I’m sooooo changeable!” he said, smirking as he told them that he really couldn’t let them continue.

And then Sherlock was pointing his gun at the bomb, Moriarty was looking momentarily stymied, and John didn’t know what was going to happen, just that he regretted nothing except embroiling Ian into this. His son would have been better off if he’d stayed with Jonathan rather than moving into 221B. John had allowed Ian to get involved in their insane lifestyle only to end up wrapped in a bomb … and then to lose his father and Sherlock? The devastation for his son was unthinkable, and that, more than anything, generated the despair roiling in his gut as he sat and waited to see what would happen. Ian had been better off with _Harry_.

He tried not to think about all the bombs he’d avoided in Afghanistan only to be facing one here in London. 

Today, he thought he hated irony.

When Moriarty’s phone began to ring ( _Staying Alive_ , really?), John tried not to let himself be fooled into hoping again. He clamped down on his heart and forced it back into his chest where it belonged and tried to force himself to breathe.

When Moriarty actually left the room and the sniper sights blinked out, breathing became easier.

“What happened there?” he asked Sherlock. 

“Maybe he got a better offer?”

What kind of thing do you offer a madman who likes bombs and is in the middle of a showdown with the man he’s been toying with for months, John wondered, and then had his question answered as a squad of black-clad agents swarmed into the room. 

He looked up at Sherlock. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Probably. He was supposed to be checking on your family.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, but all he said was, “Moriarty had photos of them on his phone.”

“Is that how he got you here?”

John shook his head and started struggling to his feet. “Sadly, to get me here, all he had to do was send me a text as you saying you needed me. The pictures of my family are how he got me into the vest.”

He took the hand Sherlock offered, grateful for the help as his legs quivered a bit before firming up to support his weight as they should. Past Sherlock, he could see Mycroft, looking as collected as always, yet somehow tense until he spotted his brother. John nodded at him as he said, “Your brother’s here.”

Sherlock made a face. “He’s useful for cleaning up, I suppose.”

John ignored that and spoke past him. “Thanks for checking on my family, Mycroft.”

An elegant eyebrow lifted. “I gather there was an actual threat?”

“Photos,” John said, “My grandfather, father, son, their homes, their cars … apparently Moriarty tracked Ian after the so-called gas explosion that started all of this, and when he found that my grandfather was an earl…” He stopped, pulling in one long breath before continuing. “Apparently he decided that we were too much fun to ignore so he promoted us to game pieces. I have no idea what … he kidnapped my son this morning and now he’s threatening my father? My grandfather? I … I don’t know what to even think about that.”

He could feel the hysteria bubbling below the surface, as if he were still primed to explode. How was he supposed to deal with this? He didn’t worry about the danger for him, but his family? What if Moriarty decided he wanted to play with John like he had played with Sherlock? What was he supposed to do about that? How could he protect them from a … what had Sherlock called him? A consulting criminal? 

He felt like sliding back down the wall and hiding his head in his hands. He couldn’t do this to them, but how was he supposed to prevent it? 

It didn’t help that both Holmes brothers were watching him with that maddening, analytical distance in their eyes. Then with identical nods (Sherlock would be appalled to learn he had similar mannerisms to his brother), Sherlock reached over and took him by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go find you an orange blanket, and we’ll deal with the rest tomorrow. For tonight, you’ve got a nine-year old who expects to see you in the morning.”

At that (oh God, what would Ian have _done_ ), John froze, but he forced himself forward. He’d deal with that later. For right now, he, Sherlock, and Ian were all safe. 

For now, that would have to be enough.

 

#


	10. Chapter 10

Early the next morning, John crept into his father’s still-empty kitchen to brew himself some truly superior tea while trying not to think.

Thanks to Mycroft, he had been able to avoid getting embroiled with hours of questions and had been home by 1:30—better than he’d dreamed possible, all things considered. Sherlock (more shaken than he cared to admit) had allowed himself to be convinced to come, too, since John hadn’t wanted to leave him alone at Baker Street but refused to spend the night away from Ian. He had sent Sherlock to his own room and then spent most of the night lying on Ian’s bed as his son slept, trying to keep his nightmares away.

John’s own nightmares? He wasn’t ready to face them yet. He had been exhausted enough to sleep, but not well. He’d spent most of the time staring at his son’s face, wondering how much innocence he had lost already, and how much more he stood to lose if Moriarty had his way.

Now, though, in the bright sun of the too-early morning, John needed to make some decisions. 

He’d had enough guilt over the years about his poor parenting. He knew his son had been loved and cared for while he was in the army, but there had still been guilt because he’d put his profession ahead of being a father. And now that he had finally gotten back to something resembling an ordinary life—finally, for the first time ever had his son living with him—he had a psychopathic consulting criminal coming after not only him and his best friend, but his _son_.

In theory, John had known that what he did with Sherlock could open up family and friends to danger—look what had happened to Sarah on their first date. He had always known there was a risk, having Ian with them, but being the focus of Moriarty’s attention was a lot more dangerous than a random kidnapper or a building exploding across the street.

Moriarty had targeted his son, his father, his grandfather, and his sister. And Jim Moriarty, John knew, _would. not. stop._ Moriarty was not your average criminal—he had massive, extensive contacts. If he chose to come after John’s family … how could he protect them?

No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep. 

“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

John turned to see his father in the doorway. “It feels like it this morning.”

He watched as Jonathan collected a cup and poured himself some tea. “How did it go last night?”

John could feel his face freeze at the question. “Not well. It was a trap and I walked right into it.”

“A trap? But … you’re okay? Sherlock?”

He nodded. “We’re both fine. But, apparently having a madman come after my family isn’t as much of a rarity as I thought. He had pictures, Father, of you and Grandfather. He mentioned Harry’s rehab … I don’t know what to do. It’s one thing for me to do a dangerous job so long as I’m the only one at risk, but … you? _Ian?_ I can’t do that.”

“And there’s nothing Sherlock’s brother can do?” his father asked after a few moments. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not completely out of the loop. You don’t think we didn’t check into your new flatmate?”

“You did?”

“Of course, John. You weren’t yourself when you came home, I wanted to be sure you weren’t making a mistake. Your cousin David has some connections—he does work at the palace after all.”

John started to laugh—one of those helpless kinds of laughs you make when there’s really no other possible reaction other than to scream, or cry. “Because Sherlock Holmes naturally looks like the ideal flatmate for a man suffering from PTSD.”

His father gave a small smile. “Not usually, no, but we’re talking about you, and you’ve always been at your best when you feel useful. Add to that his brother’s rather extreme oversight and safety precautions … it was a better match than I would have hoped.”

“Until Ian moved in,” John said, voice thick with regret … or, not regret, exactly, but a wistfulness that that idyllic time had been so short. Because of course he was going to have to give Ian up again now, to keep him safe.

“Especially then,” his father said, voice firm. “He’s been good for you—but more importantly, he’s been thriving. It’s good for him to have two strong role models, especially considering the quarrelling Clara and Harry have been doing the last year or so.”

John could only nod. “It was good.”

“Was?”

“Of course,” John said. “You don’t think I’m going to let him stay there, with Moriarty targeting him, do you?”

His father was quiet and John sat trying not to clutch his tea cup so tightly it broke. (His mother would come back to haunt him if he broke one of her favourites, it didn’t matter how long she’d been dead.) Because of course his father would see reason. The important thing was keeping Ian safe, after all. 

“Tell me what happened.”

And so he did, and lord, it felt good to explain it. How there was a man who consulted to commit crimes the same way Sherlock consulted to solve them. How his name had come up the night he had moved in with Sherlock. How he had decided to play a game…

“The worst part was that Sherlock was enjoying it—even though there were innocent people out there, wearing bomb vests. He was so caught up in the puzzles … and then Moriarty found out about Ian, and obviously the fact that Grandfather is an Earl just added relish.” He just shook his head. “He _let_ us go last night. I mean, Mycroft’s people helped, but it was Moriarty’s choice. He’s still playing the game. He could come after us again any time … and that means Ian is in danger. All of you are, so long as I live and work with Sherlock.”

His father sat, thinking, and John realized how comforting he had always found that—knowing if there was a solution, his father would find it.

He hadn’t realized how much, even after all these years as an independent adult, that could still comfort him.

“Do you want to stop helping Sherlock?” his father finally asked.

“No.” 

Give up the one thing that had given him purpose when he’d returned broken from Afghanistan? It would be unthinkable for any other reason than Ian’s safety.

“Do you want Ian to live here, with you just visiting on weekends like you used to do when he was with Harry?”

“No.” 

In fact, he didn’t think he could bear that. What kind of horrible father would put his flatmate above his son?

“And you say that you and he, and, well, all of us, are in this Moriarty’s sights, no matter what you do?”

John just nodded numbly. It was hopeless. 

He was therefore shocked when his father said, “Then it’s simple. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

John raised his head and stared … surely he had misheard? “What?”

“If you can’t divert Moriarty’s attention, then you should focus on what you can do. Give your son a secure home. Teach him to be smart and tough and resourceful—all the things you are. Curious, too, which your flatmate will certainly help to encourage. We can increase our security and institute some safety procedures that weren’t necessary before, but … John. You can’t let this madman ruin your life.”

John was still staring. “This madman almost did, Father, just yesterday. He wrapped my son in a bomb—and then did the same thing to me less than twelve hours later!”

“But he didn’t detonate them, did he? He’s playing, you said, and with Sherlock, not you. Finding out you had an influential family might have made you a … a better piece to play with, but you’re not his primary focus, son. You are, however, a soldier, as well as a doctor and a future Earl. You are just as formidable in your own right as Sherlock is … and the Brandon family is just as well connected as the Holmes family—if not more. If he were actually to kill you, he might get more attention than he expects.”

John felt that warm burst of hope inside his chest again as he saw his father’s pride in him. “I can’t risk Ian,” he said.

“No more than I want to risk you,” his father said. “And I know, you’re a full-grown adult and he is a nine-year old boy. But … that both does and does not make a difference. No father wants to see his son in danger—no matter how old he is.”

“I was in my twenties when I joined the army,” John said. “I wasn’t _nine_.”

Jonathan nodded. “And I still worried every day. Just as I worry about your sister and her drinking. Just like I worry about Ian, growing up with such a … modern … upbringing. But that’s what being a parent is. You worry every day, but you do what you can to prevent catastrophe. You protect without smothering, encourage independence but not foolhardiness. And most of all, no matter how hard it is, you do what’s right … and that includes not bowing to bullies, whether the usual kind on a playground, terrorists, or a madman with an explosive taste in vests.”

John watched his father as he gazed out the window. “And if Moriarty kidnaps Ian again despite our best protection?”

His father turned to look at him, and in his face, John suddenly saw the years, generations of the strength and determination that had led his family to an Earldom in the first place. No matter how elegant and civilized the veneer, underneath was pure steel. “Then you make him pay.”

Of course, John thought, and this time the thought felt strong rather than hopeless. He didn’t think back to the first Earl very often—but the first Lord Undershaw had _earned_ his title and had passed down an absolute belief in honour to his descendants. Doing the right thing was as much a family creed as the one that appeared on the crest. There was a reason, after all—a good, solid, genetic reason—that John found it so easy to reconcile the two halves of his personality. Protection and Care. Fighting and Nurturing. He knew any number of people believed being a doctor with a gun was contradictory, but he knew better. A Brandon did whatever he must to protect his people.

He sat quietly, sipping his tea, but now the warmth he felt had nothing to do with the hot beverage, but everything to do with a renewed sense of purpose. “I think I’ll call David this morning,” he said after a while. “See if he has any tips he might have picked up from his … employer … as regards living a normal life while staying safe.”

His father didn’t say anything, but just nodded, lifting his teacup in the smallest of salutes. 

They sat there in companionable silence, listening to the house starting to wake around them, and now John found he couldn’t wait to start the day.

 

#

 

Feeling better, John went back up to Ian’s room, walking carefully across the floor to watch the sleeping boy. He couldn’t get enough of it, watching his son breathe, and suddenly he felt better than he had in days.

“How did he sleep?”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised to hear Sherlock’s voice, though he hadn’t expected to find him in Ian’s room, lurking by the window.

“He had a nightmare while I was out last night, but otherwise slept … he woke up enough to say hello when I got back.” John looked over at Sherlock, but with the sun streaming in behind him, he couldn’t make out his face. “It’s unusual for me to be up before you.”

“I’ve been awake,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been thinking.”

John gave a nod. “Me, too. I don’t think I could go through many more days like yesterday.”

He saw a tip of Sherlock’s head. “No,” he said. “I … John, I never thought Moriarty would come after Ian.”

John just held up a hand, shutting off whatever apology or defence Sherlock was about to give. “You couldn’t have. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. I just … we’ll do what we have to do to keep him safe, John,” Sherlock all but blurted out. “You don’t have to take him away. We’ll think of something…”

“Sherlock.”

“No, really. I’ll even talk to Mycroft. We’ll increase the security at the flat…”

“Sherlock.”

“And of course I’ll help you vet everyone who comes in contact with him. The Hannah situation will not come up again, and…”

“Sherlock, stop!” John finally said with enough force to get through. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“You’re … You’re not? I mean, no, of course you’re not.”

John could see Ian’s eyes were cracked open now as he listened hard, and smiled. “Lucky for you, my father talked some sense into me this morning—not that it was hard, since he was encouraging me to do what I wanted to do anyway.”

“Really?”

John shook his head. “And you say other people are idiots? Of course we want to stay. Yesterday aside, I love helping you with cases, and Ian has this unaccountable fondness for you. And Mrs Hudson, well, someone has to help protect her real estate values from you.”

It was all he could do not to laugh at the flummoxed look on Sherlock’s face. It was so seldom he looked truly out of his depth, but apparently the idea that John and Ian actually enjoyed living with him was incomprehensible.

“But … I thought you’d insist on taking Ian away, to keep him safe.”

John didn’t think he’d ever heard Sherlock’s voice sound so small. Nor did he miss the stiff stillness that froze over his son’s form. “Ian already told me I wasn’t to hold this against you—and I don’t, Sherlock. You might be an idiot, but I know you wouldn’t endanger my son willingly—outside the possibility of chemical burns or fume inhalation from the experiments I know full well you’re demonstrating downstairs. It’s not your fault Moriarty came after Ian yesterday.” 

He stressed his son’s name a bit and gave Sherlock a pointed look to keep him from mentioning anything about the Pool last night. Ian wasn’t going to learn that his father had worn a vest matching his own just hours later until he was much, much older … eighty, maybe. In John’s memoirs. On his own deathbed. Not if John could help it.

“The point, though, is that we live a dangerous life. We do. The choices are either to deal with it, or for me to take Ian and run, and … I’m not willing to do that.”

“I didn’t think you would … I knew you wouldn’t give up Ian, and I thought that …” 

Christ, thought John. Sherlock couldn’t even complete a sentence. He was having a harder time holding on to his grin, now, and he could see Ian’s shoulders quivering under his blankets. “Like my father pointed out, Brandons don’t run … not even when they’re called Watsons. That doesn’t mean some things won’t have to change, though.”

Sherlock had stepped forward, eyes gleaming in the slanting sunlight. “Increased security. I can talk to Mycroft…”

John cut him off. “I’ll be calling my cousin David for some advice later. Brandons might not control the CCTV cameras, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have security experts of our own. I figure David’s employer knows something about trying to live a normal life while staying safe, so … he’ll be a good place to start. We’ll work out a plan, and at least where Ian’s safety is concerned, we’ll _all do what we’re supposed to do_ , won’t we? Sherlock? Ian?”

It just proved how upset Sherlock had been because he almost startled as a gleeful Ian bounced up in his bed. “Yes! Anything. I don’t want to go anywhere else. I love 221B.”

Sherlock had turned to watch the boy, something that could almost be called sentiment on his face. “Even after yesterday?”

Ian nodded. “I knew you would save me, you and father. I mean,” he paused, obviously rallying his thoughts before continuing, sounding almost embarrassed, “I was scared … really scared … but that’s what you do, isn’t it? Catch bad guys? I knew you’d be looking.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a look, neither letting on that they hadn’t even known that’d he’d been missing until that phone call. That was definitely the sort of thing that needed to be addressed—right along with him going off with a former nanny. And he really wanted to have a long talk with Hannah one of these days. For now, though, John settled for sitting on the bed and pulling Ian in for a hug, grateful he hadn’t outgrown them yet. “We always will,” he said, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “And I’m sure Sherlock will try not to annoy any other criminal masterminds.”

“You agreed it wasn’t my fault, John,” Sherlock said, protesting sharply until he got a closer look at John’s face as he and Ian started giggling. His tone of voice was much lighter as he continued, “I only look for the best, you know—in flatmates as well as archenemies.”

John let out another burst of laughter. “Mycroft will be touched to hear you think so.”

“That’s not what I meant!” 

 

#


	11. Epilogue

John looked longingly at the mince pies and wished he were ten again, so that he could snitch one for himself. It never felt like Christmas without them.

Still, he wasn’t a child anymore. Christmas might not be quite so magical, but he still felt that warm, fuzzy feeling of a perfect family moment as he looked around the room, resplendent with greens and poinsettias. 

Ian was off with his cousins as his grandfather held court somewhere, and John was just enjoying a perfect holiday moment (sans mince pies) when his cousin David came over to say hello. “Still consulting, John?”

“Still working with Sherlock, at any rate,” John said with a smile.

“At least he’s wearing more than a sheet this time.”

John laughed. “Well, this time he wasn’t trying to irritate his brother. I made very clear how much trouble he would be in if he misbehaved tonight. I swear, he’s worse than Ian.”

“I still can’t believe that lad of yours is ten already—almost exactly 80 years behind the other birthday boy.”

“I don’t know which of them looks happier,” said John, “I threw him a party for his friends, too, but this is the one he couldn’t stop talking about. I can’t argue with tradition. Grandfather said he shared his party with Ian every year and wasn’t going to stop now.”

“It’s funny, hearing you talk about upholding tradition,” said David. “You’re the most unorthodox one of the entire family … ever, I think.”

John shrugged it off with a smile. “Hey, I tried to keep my non-traditional originality from contaminating the rest of you. There’s a reason I’ve gone by mother’s name all these years.”

“True. I thought it was just because you were angry with us.”

“Never. I save that for Sherlock.”

David looked across the room where Sherlock was sitting surrounded by children hanging on whatever he was saying. “So the two of you…?”

“I’m straight, David,” John said wearily. “How many times are you going to make me tell you?”

His cousin’s brow creased. “I haven’t decided. It’s so much fun…”

“Ha ha.” John looked at the rapt faces gazing at Sherlock, too, as David asked, “What do you suppose he’s telling them?”

“Who knows? It could be his latest experiment, or something from a case. One thing you’ve got to say about Sherlock, he’s got a _lot_ of stories, if you give him a chance to tell them. The trick is making sure he doesn’t tell inappropriate ones to the youngsters.”

David’s eyes widened. “You mean…”

“Oh, no. God, no,” John said with a laugh. “He just has a different idea of ‘interesting’ than most people and sometimes gets a little … graphic … with his descriptions. I got him to stop describing the more gruesome autopsies to Ian, and Sherlock manages to censor the more violent details about our cases … but, the rest? Kids love that he doesn’t pander to them. It’s the parents I usually need to worry about.”

David glanced over at his wife. “I’ll keep that in mind. I have to say, though, I’m surprised that he gets along so well with them.”

John shrugged. “Like I said, he doesn’t pander to them, but he also understands being _curious_ , and all kids ask questions. When he’s in the right mood, he’s endlessly patient with their quest for knowledge. He says they haven’t developed mental blocks yet and are still open to new ideas.” He watched the group in the corner for another moment before saying, “I have to admit, I would have loved to meet someone like him when I was a kid. Can you imagine? Someone who questions everything, who observes everything he possibly can as if the world were one, huge puzzle? I mean, kids all do that to a degree, but Sherlock still does.”

“So you’re saying my brother never grew up?” came Mycroft’s voice as he joined them. “I could have told you that, John.”

“Yes, but when I say it, I don’t mean it as an insult or a comment on his maturity level.” He tilted his head, considering. “Or, not this time, anyway. He does sometimes act a bit like a spoiled child.”

“Better than he used to,” said Mycroft. “I’m sure that’s down to your influence, John.”

John just smiled. “No, that’s all Ian. They used to try to out-sulk or out-tantrum each other, but they seem to have come to some kind of agreement. I frankly haven’t worked up the courage to ask about the details, yet. Anyway, it’s good to see you, Mycroft.”

“It was nice of your grandfather to invite me.”

“I think it was Ian’s idea. He’s gotten attached to you as well as your brother.” He was gratified to see something resembling a blush cross Mycroft’s cheeks. “Well, you’ve been a great help, both of you, these last months with all the security.”

They had, too. It had almost been entertaining watching David and Mycroft go toe-to-toe, arguing about how stringent the security needed to be at 221B to keep Ian (and John and Sherlock) safe. And if David teased Mycroft about not having discovered John’s birth name, well, that just made it more fun.

They had finally agreed to let Mycroft’s people run the background checks so that a ‘Hannah’ (as they were calling it) wouldn’t happen again—for all their sakes. Despite what she had done to Ian, John had only sympathy for the girl. She hadn’t deserved the threats made against her own family, and certainly had deserved better than, well, he tried not to think about when they’d pulled her body from the Thames. If Mycroft’s screening could prevent that from happening again, he was fine with that.

True to his word, Sherlock had agreed to having a security system installed, as well as protocols for all of them, not just Ian, to keep them safe. It didn’t stop him from running about as much as ever, or keep him from risking his life chasing criminals, but at least someone knew where he was, most of the time. 

More importantly, they knew where Ian was all the time (or as close as they could manage). He always knew exactly who his minders were during the day as he went to and from school, and knew never to go with someone who simply told him ‘Dad said.’ (They had a worst-case scenario in place, just in case something actually did happen to John, but John chose not to think about that.)

And in the meantime, life was good. Sherlock’s practice (or whatever you called it) was thriving. John’s family, from his 90-year old grandfather down to his 10-year old son—plus assorted cousins—were doing well. Harry was clean, and seemed happy to be settling into the role of Aunt rather than Mother for Ian. Even Mrs Hudson (currently by the tree practically flirting with John’s father) had been welcomed into this odd, extended family and grand-mothered all of them.

Ian looked up then and came running over. “Dad! Sherlock’s telling the cabbie story again, and he’s getting it all wrong!”

John smiled down at his son. “Is he now? What bits?”

“He says the pill he picked was _right_ , but it couldn’t be. Hasn’t he ever seen _The Princess Bride_? Mycroft?”

John met David’s eyes, amused, as Mycroft leaned forward to answer. Unlike his brother, he was always stiff and formal around children, though John had seen signs that he was loosening a bit. “I don’t believe he has, Ian, no.”

“Have you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure. How is it relevant to the, er, cabbie case?”

Ian just stared, dumbfounded, and John reached over to lay a hand on the back of his son’s neck. “You need to see it to appreciate it, Mycroft, but there’s a scene with a similar scenario, but both pills are poisoned. The killer had just desensitized himself to the poison over the years so it wouldn’t affect him. What do you think, Ian? Should we get the DVD for Sherlock for Christmas?”

Ian’s face lit with mischief. “Oh, yes. And then he can lend it to Mycroft when he’s done.”

John looked over at Mycroft and hid a laugh at the trapped expression on his face. “Or maybe we could invite Mycroft to watch it with us? If nothing else, watching him and Sherlock see it together will be entertaining.” He looked over to see Sherlock watching. “Go on back, and let him hang on to his delusions a little longer. It makes a good story, no matter what the ending.”

He could hear mentions of Fezzig from the kids, though, and Westley, and had a feeling it was already too late—though the blank look on Sherlock’s face whenever popular culture came up was always enjoyable.

John spared a thought for Jim Moriarty, wherever he was, and wondered how he was spending his holiday. (Did Consulting Criminals break for Christmas?) They hadn’t been able to track down the man yet, and John was sure that he still had plans for them, but couldn’t be fussed to care at the moment.

Somehow, against all odds, John had a family again—a real one, however unorthodox. He looked around the room, noting how the Brandons merged seamlessly with the people who made up his own immediate family these days. It was impossible to define any other way. Somehow, he, Sherlock and Ian had turned from just being flatmates to being family, even if there was no real way to quantify it. There was no blood-tie, no romance, no obligation … but there was affection and an odd kind of co-dependence among the three of them, with Mycroft and Mrs Hudson orbiting their tight quasi-family nucleus. 

Of course, he supposed, he should expect nothing less. Earldom or not, it was the 21st century. His son had been largely raised by his gay sister and her wife and now lived with his father and his entirely-platonic best friend. Traditional definitions just didn’t apply.

What did matter, though, was that everyone in this room loved at least one or more of the others, and all of them, even the distant cousins, were tied together into a fairly formidable group who would do anything for each other.

Moriarty didn’t stand a chance.

#

THE END.


End file.
